


SHIELD Origins: Hawkeye Part II

by Aetherschreiber



Series: Marvel in the Aether [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF old!Carter, BAMF old!Jarvis, But NOT Clint and Phil..., Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Gen, Maybe a bit of pre-ship..., Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, SHIELD, no ship but friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aetherschreiber/pseuds/Aetherschreiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to SHIELD Origins Hawkeye part I. Several months into training and things between Barton and Coulson are a wee bit rocky. Add in Clint's new sparring partner Bobbi and things really start to get awkward. But when the Triskelion is invaded by hostiles and the three of them are among the few who can stop them, they'll get some sense knocked into them by one Director Carter...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_April 23rd, 1977_

_Waverly, Iowa_

 

Dad was yelling again.

It was bad this time. Clint heard several times when the sound of shattering glass went skittering across the walls and the floor. Mom was crying and things kept banging on the other side of Barney's bedroom door. The room was dark, lit only by the meager light of a nightlight in the corner and what was coming in the window from the moon.

Clint jumped when the bedroom door thudded on its hinges again. Desperately, he clung on to Barney, scrambling across the disheveled bed-covers and pulling them in around them both like a protective force field. Shadows moved in the crack of light beneath the door.

"Don't worry, Clint," Barney said, his arm around him, "Dad'll get tired soon."

"No, Harold, leave the boys alone!" Clint heard Mom shout from the other side of the door. Dad shouted something incoherent in response.

"He's gonna hit Mom again," Clint said to Barney, barely louder than a whisper.

"She knows that," Barney replied in kind, an odd sort of sadness and horror in his eyes.

The bedroom door thudded again and both boys jumped.

"What if he hits us, too?" Clint asked.

Barney put his hands on Clint's shoulders and pushed him away so that he could look his younger brother square in the eyes.

"Then hit him back," Barney said, a look in his eyes that scared Clint half to death. "Hard as you can, Clint, you _hit him back_. You got it?"

"You're smothering 'em! Move outta the way, Edith!" Dad's voice boomed from behind the bedroom door. Clint couldn't hear what Mom said in response.

"But Mom doesn't hit him back," Clint said.

"Mom's just... different," Barney said, "it's not the same. But if he hits you, just hit him back, really hard."

"He'll just keep doing it," Clint replied, tears beginning to come to his eyes.

"Then you keep doing it right back," said Barney, "no matter how many times, you give him just as good as you got. No matter what, Clint."

Before Clint could protest again, the door to Barney's bedroom burst open, spilling light from the hallway into the room, and Dad stormed in. Mom was right behind him and scrambled to place herself between Dad and the boys. Dad stumbled to a halt and weaved back and forth a little. A sharp smell filled the air, hurting Clint's nose

"Ain't gonna do 'em any good, doin' this," Dad said to Mom, "someone's gotta teach 'em."

"Harold, they didn't do anything," Mom said, holding out her hands in a placating gesture and trying to sound calm.

"S'tha point, ya stupid bitch," Dad spat out at her, "ain't nothin' about life that don't suck. Someone's gotta show 'em." He tried to take a step toward the boys, but lost his feet and fell to the floor. At length, he fumbled back up and gave a horrendous glare to Mom. "S'how it's gonna be, huh?" he spat at her. "You against me again?"

"Harold, I didn't-"

"Don't talk back ta me, little whore!" Dad pulled back a fist and sent it flying at Mom. It hit home on the side of her jaw and sent her reeling.

Clint felt Barney jump next to him. He moved to leave the bed and run towards Mom and Dad. Terrified, Clint grasped on to him harder, preventing him from going anywhere. Barney tried to move again, but Clint held on even harder. Finally, Barney gave up the battle and shifted so that he was a little more in front of Clint instead.

Dad's hand flew out again. This time, he grasped on to Mom's wrist and began to pull her toward the bedroom door.

"C'mon, Edith, we're going for a ride," Dad said.

"Harold, that's not a good idea," Mom protested, shaking her hand loose.

"You wanna go again, you little cunt?" Dad hollered back. "I'll just finish with you and then the boys'll learn. That what you want?"

"No! Harold, no!" Mom said back, panic in her voice. There was a long pause and she squared her shoulders. "All right, fine," she said, "I'll go with you."

"Mom!" Clint cried out a sudden feeling of utter dread filling him. This time it was Barney's turn to hold Clint back. He had to get to Mom, he had to stop her. Even if it meant getting hit. He had to stop this and keep Mom from leaving.

"It's all right, sweety," Mom said, looking back to the boys for a moment. It was hardly a comfort as there was terror and tears in her eyes. "Just stay right here with Barney. Everything will be fine."

"Momma, don't go with him!" Clint pleaded.

"Shut yer hole, ya little brat!" Dad shouted.

"Shh, it's all right, Clint," Mom said over her shoulder, "I know what I'm doing. It'll be fine."

Dad grasped on to Mom's hand again and he started to pull her from the room.

"Momma, please!" Clint shouted after them.

"Just stay right there, boys!" Mom shouted back to them both. A moment later, they heard the front door slam.

"Something's gonna happen!" Clint sobbed into Barney's shoulder.

"No, it's not, Clint," Barney said, "everything'll be all right. You'll see."

"Why did she leave with him?!" Clint choked out, still sobbing. "She just left us here! Why did she just _leave_ us here!?"

Barney didn't seem to have anything more to say to that. He didn't speak for the rest of the night. Not when the neighbor, Mrs McKinley, stopped by a few minutes later to check on them. Not when the police came to the door and said a lot of stuff that Clint didn't understand.

But there was one thing that Clint did understand. His parents had left and they were not coming back.


	2. Chapter One

_August 6th, 1989_

_SHIELD Base Triskelion, Washington DC_

 

"I gotta say, Clint, this is starting to get old," Coulson stated to the surly-looking 18-year old slouching in the extra chair in his office, arms rebelliously crossed over his chest.

"What? Rumlow deserved it!" Clint shot back. "The guy's a first-rate jackass!"

"You broke his nose," Coulson replied.

"He started it!" Clint replied. "He's been riding my ass every chance he's had over the last three months, ever since he got made a level one agent and was put in STRIKE. It's like he thinks he can order me around, all of a sudden."

"He can," Coulson stated, "he's a level one agent. You're still a trainee. There's this little thing called chain of command."

"All right, fine! You want me to run laps around the Triskelion, I'll go run laps around the Triskelion," Clint groused, "I consider it well worth it."

"Not the point, Clint," Coulson replied, striding out from behind his desk and leaning against the front of it, crossing his arms over his own chest and looking down at his trainee. "Insubordination isn't something that you can just buy your way out of with jogging time. This is the fourth time we've had this conversation."

"You don't even know what happened!"

"No, you're right, I don't," Coulson shot back, "because instead of coming to me with this problem, you decided to hit Rumlow in the face. This kind of thing is one of the reasons why you have a Supervising Officer."

"Like I need any help taking down that self-important asshole," Clint said, sounding insulted and giving a roll of his eyes.

"Taking him down? No," Coulson allowed, "clearly that's not a problem for you. Managing to work with him is."

"Who says I want to?"

"Who says what you want is important, in this case?"

Clint gave an angry sigh and dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. He didn't seem to have anything to say in response to that. He just sat there, fuming. Coulson was pretty close to that himself. For a while, the only noise in Coulson's office was the sound of the rain outside hitting the window.

"This is as much my failure as it is yours," Coulson pressed on, "because that's another thing that you have an SO for. Everything you do-"

"Reflects on you," Clint parroted, "yeah, yeah, I know."

"Then start acting like you do," Coulson shot back, "because I can't keep covering for you. And I don't want to see you wash out just because you can't play nice with the rest of the kids in school. I'm changing up your training routine. You need the practice working on a team."

"I work better on my own," Clint complained.

"Again, not the point," Coulson replied, "you're not always going to be working alone. Most often you'll be with at least a partner, if not a team. This is what's holding you back right now." He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it to Clint. "This is your new training partner. Read up and be ready to work together."

Clint opened the folder and looked at the top page. He didn't even look at the name on the dossier and focused on the picture that was paper-clipped to it. Instantly, he rolled his eyes, slapping the folder down into his lap in an obvious show of displeasure.

"A _girl_!?"

"Barbara Morse," Coulson supplied, "she just finished at SHIELD Ops, highest in her class. She just got her SO last week and needs someone who can challenge her."

"Oh, come on!"

"I don't want to hear it," Coulson said, silencing Clint, "this is how it's going to be, so you're going to have to deal with it. Your first training with her is tomorrow at oh-five-hundred."

"Five in the morning!? But-"

"And I want you to do a lap around the Triskelion to warm up before hand."

"But-"

"Do you _really_ want to keep talking?"

Clint let his head fall back again with a half-moan-half-sigh of frustration. "No," he finally allowed.

"Good," Coulson said, "then get out."

With a heavy sigh, Clint lifted himself up off the chair and made his way to the door. He had just opened it when Coulson spoke up again.

"One more thing," he said, "four laps, right now."

Clint sputtered, his hand still on the door handle. "It was only two last time!"

"That's right," Coulson confirmed, "from here on out, you're doing a lap for every time this has happened. Do this again, it'll be five."

"Can I least wait until the rain stops?"

"No. Laps. Now."

With another roll of his eyes and a deep sigh, Clint turned to leave. "You're a futzing bastard, Coulson."

"That's four today," Coulson called after him, "only two more on your quota."

"Bastard, bastard!" Clint shot back as he began to make his way down the hallway. A couple of heads popped out of other offices, wondering what the fuss was about.

"There ya go," Coulson muttered to himself, then closed the office door with a slam and went back to the seat at his desk. Opening a drawer, he pulled a bottle of aspirin out and shook two tablets into his hand. He downed them dry and allowed himself a moment to breathe, leaning back in his chair and listening to the sound of the rain on his window.

Damn, but it was coming down hard! He began to think that maybe sending the kid out in this weather to do laps was a little harsh. The Triskelion was big and getting bigger every day as building was being completed on the upper levels. Four laps was quite a lot of running, about three miles, give or take. On the other hand, with the temperature in the nineties, the rain would help keep Clint cooled a little. He'd be wet and uncomfortable, but he could handle it.

For seven months, they had been doing this dance and Coulson was beginning to wonder if it would ever end. Clint was right on track, or even ahead of the curve, in terms of skills. He had already known how to fight fairly well when they started and a few pointers from Coulson had gotten him to where he could have made a decent showing in tournament at SHIELD Ops. And, he was already setting records on the Triskelion obstacle course.

But Coulson was the only one from whom Clint would regularly take orders. And even then, he questioned almost everything. Coulson's inbox was stacked with memos from other agents who had complained that Barton refused to work with them or with teams, always deciding to try and achieve a training objective on his own instead of counting on or listening to anyone else. Lately, he had even started distancing himself from Coulson, finding reasons not to join his SO in recreation, unlike how things had started out.

And it hadn't happened gradually, either. One day they had been in the garage, working on Lola's carburetor, the next day Clint had shut down and seemed to be avoiding Coulson. The agent kept going over and over those couple days in his mind and for the life of him he couldn't figure out what had happened. This was particularly vexing, since Coulson prided himself on being able to read people.

But Clint had utterly closed off. He declined even the most basic of help or anything that remotely resembled a gift, like he suddenly had something to prove.

It was all just so damned confusing.

* * *

Clint's alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 4:30 AM. With a groan of protest at the device, he reached a hand out to beat it into silence with a fist. He lay there for a second, wondering why the thing had gone off so damned early and slowly he remembered as sleep lifted. His hand once more reached out to find the lamp on his nightstand and turn it on. Feeling like he needed a crowbar to do it, Clint sat up and pushed the covers back.

"Great," he muttered, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, "only four hours of sleep and my mouth still tastes like wet dog."

Clint half stood up, half rolled off his bunk and wandered in the general direction of the small bathroom attached to his quarters in the Triskelion dormitories. As soon as he turned on the light, he was confronted with his reflection in the small mirror over the sink.

"You look like a futzing zombie," he told it as he turned on the faucet and filled a glass with water. He rolled some of it around in his mouth and spat it out, then drank the rest. It didn't get the morning taste out of his mouth, but it helped. He splashed some water on his face and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. Then he paused and leaned on the sink, still looking at his reflection.

He didn't look that much better.

He gave a sigh, wondering when he had turned into that. His hair had been buzz cut short, there were dark circles under his eyes, and a general tired, sagging look to everything. It was different from what he had been, even with all the bull shit that went down at the carnival. It was like he was carrying something that was far too heavy. No one else at the Triskelion seemed to be that way.

"What am I doing here?" he asked the reflection.

Silence answered him, as it always had these past few months. And suddenly, he found his own voice filling it.

"Nothing else left, that's what," he said, pushing himself away from the mirror, "no choices. Don't screw this up."

And that was really the crux of it. It had been fun, at first; a grand adventure and a great chance to make something of himself. But that euphoria had faded within a month. No one else there seemed to want to have anything to do with him, muttering obscenities about how he should have gone through the academy like everyone else or just plain not even noticing he was there. Except for Coulson, of course. He went out of his way to try and be his friend and not just his SO. And then, one day, it just felt... wrong. He wasn't sure why, but any time with Coulson outside of training put a knot in his stomach.

And things had just gone downhill between the two of them after that. Coulson was trying, certainly, in both senses of the word. But that just made it worse. So Clint pushed back, each time tapping the wedge a little further between them. But he just didn't know what else to do, other than just work harder, show everyone what he was worth. But that was making it worse, too.

Clint pulled a purple tank top over his head and then found and put on the black pants he used for workouts. Grabbing his bow and quiver, he left his quarters and made his way down to the ground level of the Triskelion. As he made his way to the running path outside, the soft glow of sunrise was beginning to show behind the trees on the edge of the Potomac, casting a twilight-like light to everything around. He had about fifteen minutes, just enough time to get his run in.

Coulson was there already, also dressed for a workout. Clint sighed, inwardly, careful not to let the knot in his stomach show on his face.

"Come to check up on me?" Clint said, perhaps a little more bitterly than he intended. "Make sure I'm not cheating on my warm up lap?"

Coulson gave a weak smile, then slid his eyes away to re-tie a shoe lace. "Just warming up," he replied, his smile vanishing, "gotta keep up with you and Morse while we train. Besides, you warm up, I warm up. Put your gear down and let's go."

Allowing a little bit of a defiant gleam to come to his eye, Clint tightened the strap of his quiver on to his shoulder. "I'll have it on missions. Might as well train with it on."

There was a little bit of a pause before Coulson replied. "Suit yourself," he finally said with a shrug. And with nothing further, he began down the path at a jog, Clint hot on his heels.

The run was at an easy pace, at first. Clint sped up just enough to catch up to Coulson and they ran side by side for a bit. But then Clint noticed the agent glancing over at him at odd intervals, looking thoughtful. Feeling a little like he was being graded, Clint clenched his teeth together and picked up the pace.

Coulson followed suit and was next to him again in a moment. So Clint sped up again. And still Coulson matched his speed. Again and again he put on more speed until the both of them were flat-out sprinting. By the time they had looped back around to their starting place, they were both at the top speeds and pushed through to the end.

They both came to a halt and leaned over, puffing for breath. Coulson stole a glance at his watch.

"Nine minutes, thirty-four seconds," he said between breaths, "care to tell me what that was about?"

"Nothing," Clint said, pushing himself back up and still taking deep gulps of air.

"That was supposed to be a warm up," Coulson said, "not a race."

"Can't it be both?" Clint replied, turning away and shaking out his legs and arms.

Coulson didn't answer, but Clint heard him give a sigh. There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them and the knot in Clint's stomach grew.

"What's the deal, anyway?" Clint asked, turning back to Coulson and giving a challenging edge to the question. "What'd I do wrong this time? Was my stride off?"

Coulson shook his head, giving a confused look.

"You kept looking over at me, like you were watching me, dammit!"

Coulson shrugged. "I'm your SO. I observe. It's what I do."

Somehow, Clint knew there was more to it than that, something Coulson was holding back. It was a little like he was afraid to rush in where angels feared to tread.

Perhaps he was.

Grinding his teeth together again, Clint shook his head and turned away once more. "I never asked for any special treatment, you know," he said as he adjusted the quiver on his back and turned to head inside.

"You think I'm going easy on you?!" Coulson said incredulously as he followed. "Believe me, I'm not. Fury's even suggested I lighten up on you."

"Yeah, whatever," Clint replied.

The Triskelion had five basement levels. Or, at least, five that Clint knew about. He suspected there were more that he wasn't allowed to know about. But the training rooms took up most of the second basement level. Clint and Coulson took the walk there in silence. It was one of the longest five minutes in Clint's memory.

Coulson never picked the same training room twice in a row. It was always random and Clint suspected there was something to that. Today, Coulson chose a room not too far from the stairwell. They were pretty much all the same, really; grey training mats on the floor and part way up the walls, brightly lit with fluorescent lights, some equipment sitting in a rack in the corner. The only thing different today when Clint entered was the blonde sitting on the mats and stretching.

Okay, fine, so she was hot. Really, really hot. Or maybe it was the tight black tank top and yoga pants she was wearing. Still. Hot.

As Clint and Coulson entered, she easily rolled to her feet. "Morning, sir," she said.

"Morning," Coulson replied, "Blake not joining us?"

"Nah, he had to get to a meeting," she replied, with a shrug, "it was need to know and I didn't need to know, so..."

"You'll get used to it," Coulson said with a knowing smile. "Barbara Morse, Clint Barton. You'll be training together for a while."

"Hey," she said, sticking out a hand, "call me Bobbi."

"Uh, yeah, hi," Clint replied, taking her hand and giving it a firm shake, "Clint. Or Hawkeye, if you want."

"Hawkeye?" She asked with a smile. "Didn't your TV show end like six years ago?"

"The game of life is hard to play," Clint belted out with a grin, then faltered a little, "I'm gonna lo... lose it... any... anyway, what's up first?" Self consciously, he turned away and cleared his throat, taking his quiver off and setting it along the wall with his bow beside it.

Aw crap, was that a giggle he heard from her?

"Great," said Coulson, wandering over to the equipment rack and pulling three pairs of gloves from it. He tossed each trainee a pair. "Now I'm gonna have that song in my head. Morse, you know any Krav Maga?"

"Just some basics," she said, pulling her gloves on. Clint did the same.

"Good," Coulson replied, "then it sounds like the two of you are about on the same level. We'll start with that."

Morse's file hadn't exaggerated. She was good. Clint had to bring his A-Game to keep up with her. Not that he hadn't with Coulson, though he suspected the agent had been using his C-game. But from an equal, it was refreshing. He decided not to hold back. It wasn't like he felt bad about hitting a girl, after all. Besides, if she got mad at him, so what? They probably wouldn't be training partners for very long, anyway.

As the training progressed, though, Clint began to find that he was actually having fun. And to his surprise, Bobbi seemed to be as well. The only dampener in the room was Coulson, watching them and making comments, always with a look like he was evaluating. It made Clint want to punch him.

And then, in the middle of a close-quarters grapple, as if reading his mind, Bobbi caught Clint's eye then gave a subtle nod of her head toward Coulson. Clint hard a hard time suppressing a grin. As one, they both turned and went straight for Coulson.

And thirty seconds later, they were both sprawled out on their backs, side by side on the mat.

"The hell?" Clint asked as Coulson leaned over to look down at both of them.

"That wasn't Krav Maga," Bobbi said.

"Brazilian Jiu Jitsu," Coulson replied with a smirk, offering each of them a hand up, "if you two are gonna play dirty, I'm gonna play dirty."

With a collective groan, Clint and Bobbi both pushed themselves up off the mat.

"Isn't there some sort of a rule about abuse of trainees?" Clint groused.

"That was crazy," Bobbi said, "you're gonna need to show me that one some time."

"Sure," Coulson said with a shrug, "but for now, since you two seem to want to work on the teamwork thing, let's do that. That came down to tactics. You both came at me from the same direction at the same time. Try to flank me, this time. There's two of you and one of me. Use that."

And then Clint realized what had just happened. He had played right into the agent's hands. Coulson had gone on about Clint getting along with a teammate and in less than five minutes of working with a partner, he had them working as a team.

"The bastard baited me," Clint mumbled with realization.

"What?" Bobbi asked.

"That's one, Barton," Coulson said with a smirk, "five left for the day."

And then, Clint didn't give a damn. All he wanted to do was wipe that smirk off Coulson's face. And if Bobbi could help him do it, then fine. Coulson was asking for it, after all.

* * *

Several hours, three more "bastards," and a bunch of bruises later, Clint and Bobbi emerged from the training room. Both were sweating profusely and guzzling bottles of water. As they silently walked the corridor toward the stairs, Bobbi stretched upward with her arms, working a kink out of her back and providing yet another rather distracting silhouette.

She had been doing that a lot throughout the session, Clint reflected; getting in just a little too close, grinning just a little too sweetly. It was really, _really_ distracting and it had thrown Clint off his game a little. He liked the view, there was no denying that. But he caught himself and forced his gaze away, figuring this was more of Coulson's strategy.

"What's that look about?" Bobbi asked him a moment later. Apparently, Clint's stubborn streak hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Nothin'," Clint replied, not daring to look back at her.

"Sport, I've seen 'nothing' and that was not 'nothing,'" she pressed, "so c'mon, spill."

With a grumble, Clint rolled his eyes. "I know what you're doing," he finally said.

"Walking down a hallway and drinking water while I talk to you?" she asked, giving him a look that clearly indicated she thought he was crazy.

"No, I know what Coulson put you up to, all right?" Clint shot back. "You're supposed to be flirting with me and making me feel all warm and fuzzy about being a part of a team."

"Excuse me?" Bobbi asked, in a tone that suggested more a warning than confusion.

"But if he thinks I'm so shallow as to go all friendly just because of a pretty face, then he doesn't know a single thing about me."

"So you _do_ think I'm pretty," Bobbi said, still not looking like she was entirely happy with the direction of the conversation.

"I didn't say that!"

"So you think I'm a horse, then."

"What? No! All I said was-"

Before Clint could finish, Bobbi suddenly turned and pressed him up against the wall. She leaned in quickly and locked her lips on to his. It wasn't entirely unpleasant and Clint was stunned into inaction, finding himself doing nothing but letting it happen. Finally, when she began to back off, his reflexes returned and he pushed her away a little.

"The hell?" he breathed out, still in shock and desperately fighting the goofy grin he felt coming on.

"I'm flirting with you of my own accord, dumbass," she said, "you have a nice butt and it feels like I should be carded before looking at your arms."

"Uhmm..." Clint sputtered for a moment, "thanks?"

"Wow, you are really terrible at this," Bobbi replied with a laugh, "we'll work on that." She gave him a light cuff on the shoulder before turning and continuing on down the corridor. "See ya tomorrow, Sport!"

Blinking stupidly, Clint watched her go, noting the sway of her braided blond hair, wisps sticking out of it in untidy little signs of their training session. She disappeared around the flight of stairs, tossing a wave over her shoulder at him.

Clint felt like the biggest idiot on the face of the planet. With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling his face grow hot. After a moment, he lightly bounced the back of his skull against the wall a few times, not just feeling like an idiot, but also a jerk.

Coulson wandered by a moment later. "How's your foot taste?" he asked, not even breaking stride as he passed.

"Shut up, bastard."

"And five!"

"Four!"

"Five. I counted that one you thought I didn't hear."

Growling and muttering a few choice obscenities under his breath, Clint pushed off from the wall and stalked down the corridor after his SO.


	3. Chapter Two

Every day for the next week and a half began the same way. The first half of the day was given over to Clint training in tandem with Bobbi. Coulson mixed up their focus quite frequently; obstacle course one day, sparing with weapons the next, stealth training the day after that, and so on. Clint and Bobbi were beginning to make a pretty good team, when he could get Clint to work with his partner.

But that, of course, remained the problem. Coulson found that he still had to force Clint to work with Bobbi. Hell, he sometimes even had to trick him into it the way he had on the first day. Clint kept trying to go it alone, ignoring Bobbi's presence until he had absolutely no choice. And every time Coulson tried to find out why, every single time he tried to talk to Clint about it, Clint would shut down and clam up, even get hostile. It was beyond frustrating. It was maddening and exhausting.

The upside of it was that Clint had seemed to have made a friend in Bobbi. Training was one thing, but apparently socialization was another. Coulson often found that they would head to the cafeteria together after training. In those rare times that the two of them had some time to themselves at the same time, they would sometimes go into Georgetown to catch a band playing or movie, like actual people their age. It was good to see Clint starting to open up a little, even if it was only to one person. Still, Coulson had to admit that it hurt a little that the kid was still not opening up to him again.

Presently, it was about eight in the morning, three hours into their normal training session. Coulson had decided to brave the August heat a little and have Clint and Bobbi run the outdoor obstacle course, before the sun got too high. The pair had hit a plateau on their time and Coulson desperately wanted them to improve it. Individually, they were both logging some of the best times the course had ever seen. Clint, in fact, held the individual record with Bobbi close on his tail. But the exercise was for a team time.

They were still running the course individually and therein lied the trouble. Clint's background in acrobatics gave him an edge and he almost always finished first. But, of course, the clock was still running because Bobbi hadn't finished yet. It usually ended up with Clint flailing his arms at her and shouting encouragements as she cleared the last couple obstacles. Ideally, they would have been crossing the finish line together. There were plenty of places in the course that two people working together would have sped up getting past an obstacle. But Clint would run them solo and Bobbi would be right behind him doing the same.

Coulson desperately wanted to just come right out and tell them this. But, he knew that Clint in particular, had to figure it out on his own. The way things were going between the trainee and his SO, Coulson was almost sure that if he said it, Clint would all the more stubbornly go it alone. So, he would hint at it. "Look at other ways to get around that," he would say, or "that's the exact same thing you both did last time."

Today was much the same except for one thing. Today, it was Bobbi leading the way and shouting at Clint to pick up the pace. And Clint's time was decidedly... well... _normal_. Not only that, but as they ran the course again and again, he was actually getting slower. On their fourth time through, Clint crossed the finish almost three obstacles behind Bobbi. He doubled over to catch his breath, looking flushed and tired.

"Well, that was a personal worst," Coulson said, puzzled and looking at his stopwatch in confusion, "what's up with you today, Barton?"

Still breathing heavily, Clint forced himself to stand up straight again. He gave Coulson an irritated glare. There were dark circles under his eyes and Coulson thought he heard a bit of a hitch in his breath. "Nothing, I'm fine," Clint bit out. He turned to the water bottles that were waiting on the edge of the finish platform and went to grab one, but stopped. "Dammit, which one's mine again?" he asked Bobbi.

"Does it matter?" she replied. "I don't have cooties or anything."

"Just... which one?" Clint pressed, testily.

"Left," Bobbi answered, sounding uncertain. Clint snagged it and began to guzzle water. "It's never mattered to you before."

"Yeah, well it matters today," Clint shot back between swallows.

While Clint's back was still to them, Coulson looked over at Bobbi with a questioning glance. Bobbi silently shook her head and shrugged.

"Maybe we should call it a day on the course," Coulson said, "it's getting hot out and-"

Setting his water bottle down with a thump, Clint shook his head vehemently. "No, I want to get this right," beginning to head back to the starting line.

"Clint we've run it four times," Bobbi said, beginning to walk after him, "it's just not our day today."

"Yeah?" Clint growled back. "When we're done training and they send us out on missions, what are we gonna do when it's not our day then? One more time, I can do this."

Bobbi stopped in her tracks as Clint stubbornly continued onward. She turned and looked back at Coulson, arms in an exaggerated shrug. The look she had was asking what she should do.

"One more time," Coulson said with a shrug and a shake of his head. Bobbi nodded and continued onward, back to the start with Clint.

When he saw that they were both ready, he rang the starting bell and started his stop watch. Both trainees took off at a sprint to the first obstacle. Coulson watched both of them for the first few, then decided that Bobbi was on her normal pace. So he focused his attention solely on Clint.

The kid fell behind his partner rather quickly. It was all in the little things; he tried to jump from the wrong foot here, a vault was a little off there, he had trouble finding hand holds in a few spots. All of it added up to slow him down. It was all very uncharacteristic. Coulson had never seen him so imprecise before, not even the first time he had seen him on the trapeze in that show at Carson's Carnival. And as the course went on, his motions got even less accurate and Coulson saw him actually wobble on a few landings. It was all stuff that Coulson hadn't thought that the Amazing Hawkeye even had in him.

About halfway through the course, Clint came to the rope swing. It was a platform, two stories up or so, with a wall on the other side just as tall. The idea was to leap for the rope, swing across, and grab the top of the wall and go over. It was very like trapeze and Clint had always nailed it.

But not today. The moment Clint leaped from the platform a little early and ended up lower on the rope than usual he braced himself for disaster. Clint went swinging straight into the wall, noting it at the last second and trying to get his legs around to take the hit, but he wasn't really successful. He slammed into the wall hard and awkwardly. The shock of it caused him to lose his hold on the rope. Clint fell backward, landing hard in the airbag below, the cardboard boxes under it crumpling with the force.

Coulson cursed and was in motion almost immediately, heading for the bag. He saw that Bobbi had noticed him moving a moment later and stopped her run of the course to head back. As Coulson approached the bag, he was relieved to hear a drawn out moan of pain and see the bag shifting a little. He finally caught sight of Clint in the middle of the tangle and pushed his way in.

The kid had landed flat on his back, his spine arching over his reinforced quiver and the collapsible bow that was attached to it. He lay in the bag, his arms trying to find purchase, but still rather stunned from the drop and breathing hard, eyes closed against the pain. Coulson scrambled over the gently deflating bag to get to him.

"Barton!" he called as he got to his side. The teen shifted a little as if to sit up. "Hey, hey, hey, not yet," Coulson said, putting a hand on Clint's chest. "Any shooting pains or loss of feeling?"

"No, I'm fine, leemee alone," Clint grumbled, pushing Coulson's hand away and beginning to roll over to sit up.

Coulson reached back in to help him, grabbing a bicep. And that was the moment that everything suddenly fell into place. Clint's skin was radiating heat. As soon as the trainee had sat up enough, Coulson reached for his forehead and found it even warmer.

"Barton, you're running a fever!" Coulson exclaimed, incredulously.

Clint shoved Coulson's hand away again. "Don't worry about it, I'm not gonna let it get in the way," he mumbled, looking a little embarrassed.

"Uh, I think it kind of is, there, tough guy," Bobbi said, wading into the bag and lending a hand, "you're sick. And you're still a mere mortal."

"I'm _fine_!" Clint insisted, pulling away from her as well. "It's just a damn cold. I can handle it. It's not gonna stop me."

Coulson looked at him in disbelief. Was the kid actually thinking that Coulson was concerned about course times and performances right now? Frankly, Coulson was flabbergasted that Clint had actually managed to find the energy to run the course four times as well as he had.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Coulson found himself saying a moment later as Clint began to scramble out of the bag.

"I'll run it again," Clint said, "I'll get it right this time, I promise." Even as he said this, he grimaced painfully as he tried to stretch a bruise out of his back to no avail. He wobbled a little bit as he did so.

"No, you won't," Coulson stated, his tone leaving no room for argument, "you're done for today."

"Dammit, Coulson, it's a futzing cold!" Clint snapped back, his voice raising. "I told you, you don't need to treat me like some kinda special snowflake!"

"And I told _you_ , I'm not!" Coulson replied in kind as he freed himself of the bag. "And with a fever that high, it's more than a cold. You're done and we're going to medical. Now."

Clint ground his teeth and cursed, angrily shaking his head and turning his back to Coulson. But there was no further argument. Coulson rested a hand on his shoulder and began to direct him toward the entrance to the Triskelion. Clint scowled and shook him off, then stalked onward. Bobbi was in motion an instant later, walking to keep up with him.

Coulson gave a sigh as he watched Clint stomp off. He swore that he saw a crushing look of defeat come over the kid. For the life of him, Coulson couldn't figure out what was going through the kid's head. He shook his head and jogged to catch up.

* * *

"Seriously, Clint, I haven't seen a face-plant like that since my first week at the academy," Bobbi was saying to Clint about an hour later.

Clint sat on a bed in medical, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a embarrassed-looking scowl on his face. Every time any of the doctors or nurses came over, he tensed up and sent a glare their way, but grudgingly cooperated.

"I might look back through the course cameras," Bobbi continued, "I mean, that needs to be saved for posterity."

"Great, so you can continue to mock me?" Clint replied, sarcastically. "Like some kinda... mocking... bird... or something."

"Hey!" Bobbi said. "I kinda like that. Mockingbird. I think that's gonna stick."

"So what, we're a flock now?" Clint replied. "Hawkeye and Mockingbird?"

"Mockingbird and Hawkeye. Top billing is earned, sport."

Coulson watched their interaction through the glass that looked into the room Clint had been placed inside. Was the kid actually laughing? He was clearly still unhappy to be there, but Bobbi was actually talking him back and he was letting her.

It just didn't make any sense, Coulson reflected. Clint kept getting more and more tightly wound up when he was around Coulson and more and more relaxed when he was with Bobbi. And as far as he could tell, they weren't treating him any differently. They had both shown the same kind of concern when he had hit the wall and fallen into the bag. They were both needling him to knock off for the day. Why was Clint pissed at him and joking around with Bobbi?

"Ooh, I know that look," a voice said behind Coulson a moment later, female and accented British. Coulson turned and found Director Carter approaching, a sympathetic look. "Troubles with your protege, Agent Coulson?"

"Director," Coulson said, shifting a little uncomfortably under her scrutiny, "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, that's when I'm at my best," she replied, "I had heard of the amazing times Barton was running on the obstacle course and I thought I'd come see for myself. I was rather surprised to hear that he had landed in medical with bruises from a large fall."

"It's not his fault, ma'am," Coulson said, "it's mine. He's got some kind of stomach bug and a fever and still tried to run the course. I didn't see it."

"Oh, that stomach flu again," Carter said pursing her lips, "Sitwell came back from a mission in Guatemala with it and it's been going through the place like wild fire ever since. Half the administrative staff is down with it."

"I should've seen it," Coulson said, dejectedly, "he hasn't called me a bastard even once today."

"Called you a what?" Carter asked.

Coulson sniffed out a laugh and gave a crooked smile. "Long story."

"Must be," Carter observed, "it sounds like things between you are rather complicated."

"That's just it," Coulson replied, "they're not that complicated at all. I'm his SO, he's my trainee. He talks back a bit, but doesn't refuse my orders, keeps pushing himself like no one I've ever seen. Except for his mouth and his lone-wolf routine, the kid's making me look damn good, for my first time out as an SO."

"Then why the face?" Carter pressed.

"I dunno," Coulson said with a sigh, turning around to lean against the wall and the window, "still trying to... figure him out, I guess. He always has this look like he'd rather be anywhere else when I'm around. It's almost like he's scared. And every time I try to talk to him about it, it makes it worse."

"He seems to be getting along with Morse well enough," she said.

"Sure, outside of training," he replied, "they're thick as thieves. But I can't get him to stop trying to do everything himself."

Carter gave a thoughtful hum of consideration, looking from Coulson through the glass to the subject of their conversation. "I've read his recruitment file," she said after a moment, "not a pleasant upbringing."

"Putting it mildly," Coulson said with a grimace, "drunk father, beating the whole family to a pulp. Older brother who walked out on him when things got too tough. Not to mention the not one but _two_ mentors who turned criminal and tried to kill him, both of whom are still out there, somewhere."

Carter hummed again. "Father, elder brother, two mentors," she said, "sounds rather like a pattern, don't you think?" She arched an eyebrow at him, one corner of her mouth quirking up just a little.

Coulson looked back at Carter with a face like he had just been hit over the head with a two-by-four. Then he turned back to look through the window at Clint, dumbfounded. Casting his gaze upward with a sigh, Coulson paced across the hall and dropped into one of the plastic chairs along the wall. "Well, Director Carter, it's my sad duty to inform you that your newest level six agent is an idiot."

"Oh, I doubt that," she said, lighting in the chair next to him, "it would be quite a backslide from the clever young man who uncovered a SHIELD facility underneath the physics department at his university with nothing but history books and some newspaper clippings."

Coulson gave a laugh. "How is Leo Burt these days?" he asked. "Still down there ranting about conspiracies and secret war crimes?"

"I'm afraid so," Carter replied, "you should have heard his take on _Challenger_."

"I bet." He gave a sobering sigh. "I'm not sure how to fix this."

"Agent Coulson, you are one of our very best," Carter said, "but even so, being a teacher is different than being an agent. You have to learn how to do it. And I won't mince words. I'd say you bit off quite a lot with that one."

"Yeah, but he's worth it, trust me. He's acting scared around me because he is scared. Scared I'm being nice because I don't think he can hack it and scared I'll turn him out on his ear if I get angry. Rock and a hard place."

"And Morse doesn't have that over him," Carter supplied, "so he's free to get closer to her."

"Talk about a misstep," Coulson said around a sigh, shaking his head, "I really made a mess of this one."

"And you'll clean up your mess, Agent," Carter said, sternly, getting to her feet again. Coulson stood as well. "Because like I said, I've read his file. And you're right, he _is_ worth it. I expect you to turn him into the best agent SHIELD has ever seen. Am I clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Coulson said with a nod.

"Good," she said, "now go see to your boy."

With a nod, Coulson turned to enter the room where Clint and Bobbi were. He began to formulate the questions he had for the doctor who was with them, checking Clint's vitals. Carter began to go back up the hallway the way she had come.

And then Coulson stopped dead in his tracks, hearing something odd. It was a soft hissing noise from somewhere above him. He turned back and looked into the hallway again to find that Director Carter had stopped dead as well. She turned back to him with a puzzled expression.

"Do you hear that?" she asked.

"Yeah," Coulson replied, "where's that coming from?"

And then, there was a slam at the far end of the hallway. They both looked to it and found that a heavy metal door had fallen over the entrance to the hallway. There were other slams sounding in the distance.

"It's a lockdown!" Carter exclaimed, equal parts surprise and confusion in her voice.

"They're circulating knockout gas in the corridors," Coulson realized.

"Into the room, quickly!" Carter ordered, indicating the room where Clint and Bobbi were looking at them through the glass in alarmed confusion.

Coulson saw Carter through the door and then another metal barrier began to descend. Coulson was about to duck under it and follow Carter inside when he spotted a nurse a little ways away in the corridor. The barriers for the other rooms had already closed and she was desperately looking for one that was still open. Coulson immediately put his shoulder under the descending barrier to hold it up a little longer.

"In here! C'mon!" he shouted.

The nurse sprinted for the door and ducked under it as Coulson heard the gears lowering the barrier grind somewhere above. Pressure increased on his shoulder until the nurse was through and then he rolled out from under it, letting the barrier descend with a heavy thud.

"The hell is going on?" Clint asked, pushing the doctor away and getting up to join Coulson and Carter near the window. Bobbi was hot on his heels.

"Lockdown protocols have been activated," stated Carter, still sounding surprised, "we should be safe in this room, since it's sealed to the corridor, but anyone caught outside of a room will be knocked out by the gas."

"Was there a drill scheduled for today?" Coulson asked.

"No," Carter replied, "this is a real lockdown."

"Then we need to find out what's happening," Coulson mused.

"But if we're stuck in here, how do we do that?" Bobbi asked. "That door doesn't look like it's going to be moving any time soon."

As if to answer their questions, a speaker in the ceiling came to life with a crackle of static and a moment of feedback. When that cleared, a voice came through it, a confident and a little egotistical baritone.

 _"Attention, SHIELD,"_ it said, _"none of you know me, but you may call me the Fixer. Doubtlessly, those of you who are still conscious are wondering what is happening. I have taken over the Triskelion and I have control of your security protocols. I also have here with me Assistant Director Fury, but there's someone else I'm very interested to speak to. Director Carter, if you value the life of your soon-to-be successor, I suggest you contact me. You have two hours."_

The speaker crackled out to silence then. Coulson immediately moved to pull down the shade that was over the window. He turned to the doctor in the room, spotting his name on his ID badge, pinned to his coat.

"Doctor Harris, are there any security cameras or microphones in this room?" he asked.

The Doctor shook his head. "No, it's considered a violation of medical privacy to record patients under treatment without their consent or that of a legal guardian."

"Good, then no one can see or hear who's in here," Coulson said, "Director Carter, I recommend that you do not reveal your location at this time."

"I quite agree, Agent Coulson," she said, "we have two hours, let's use them. I want ideas."

"But we're stuck in a room," Clint said, "we leave through the only exit, we pass out. What can we do from here?"

"That's precisely what we need to figure out," Coulson said, "personally, I'd like to get a little information. Does this Fixer actually have Fury or is he playing us? We've have no proof either way. And is there anyone else in the Triskelion still up and moving or are we it?"

"There's no intercom in here," said the nurse. Coulson glanced at the name on her badge. Gideon. "We have no way to talk to anyone."

"Not entirely true," said Carter, kicking off her black heels. She picked them up and gently worked at one of the inch-and-a-half heels until it came loose, neatly turning the shoe into a flat. "A little something from my days with the Howling Commandos," she said, handing the heel piece to Coulson and then working at the other one.

Coulson looked at the piece in his palm. Turning it over, he found a small speaker on the end that had been attached to the shoe. There were three tiny buttons below it and a tiny antenna in a corner, recessed into a slot. He pulled the antenna out and the three buttons lit up with tiny lights. A moment later, there was a small chirp from the speaker.

"Ooh!" Coulson exclaimed, with a air of boyish excitement. "A covert micro radio, developed by Howard Stark and the SSR in 1946. Smallest transistors ever made and some of the earliest LEDs. What kind of range does it have?"

"Any matching radio in the District should be able to receive the signal," Carter replied, "and it just so happens that I gave one to a very old friend. I hope he still carries it with him. I'll try to contact him. In the meantime..."

Carter moved across the room to the wall in the farthest corner of the room, set in a small alcove meant to be a place where patients could put their belongings. She ran her hands along the back of the alcove, pressing at various intervals. Finally, in response to one press, the top edge of the back panel popped outward enough to get fingers behind it. Coulson moved to help her as she pulled the panel away, revealing a small, dark, crawlspace with an end far off enough that they couldn't see it.

"I didn't know this was here," Coulson said, "is this even on the blueprints?"

"You're not meant to, and no," Carter replied, "knowledge of its existence has been restricted to level nine and above."

"Isn't that like, ten people?" Bobbi asked.

"Yes," Carter replied, "ten very trusted people. Needless to say, as of this moment, you are all ordered not to discuss this with anyone. Is that clear?"

There were five very solemn nods in response. Doctor Harris and Nurse Gideon looked decidedly out of their depth.

"Good," she said, "this crawlspace leads in various directions all over the building. I'll use them to scout and gather some necessities for us."

"Due respect, Director," Coulson spoke up, "but I think I should be the one to go."

Carter looked at Coulson with an expression somewhere between sour and incredulous. "Well, I'm aware I'm rather past my prime, Agent Coulson," she said, "but I'm still well capable."

"Not in question, Director," Coulson replied, "but you are the one the Fixer is looking for. Here, we can be more certain that you are secure and your position remains unknown. That can't be said for other parts of the complex. Besides, if you have a contact that you can reach outside the complex, wouldn't it be better the message comes from you?"

Carter took a deep breath. "Your point is well made," she said, "blast it! I hate sitting on my hands when there's work to do! There aren't separate channels on the radios, so you'll need to keep it off most of the time. But I want you to check in every ten minutes."

"Understood," said Coulson.

"Let me grab my gear and we can get moving," Clint spoke up, making for his bow and quiver sitting on a chair nearby.

Coulson stuck out a hand, planting it in Clint's chest and stopping him mid-stride. "No, you're staying here," he said.

"What?" Clint exclaimed. "You're not going out there alone! Whatever happened to 'you do it, I do it,' huh?"

"That applies to me, not you," said Coulson, "besides, the situation hasn't changed the fact that you're sick. If you weren't up to the obstacle course, you're not up for this."

"But that was just an obstacle course, this is the real thing! I can handle it!"

"You misjudged a jump and smashed into a wall when there wasn't anything on the line," said Coulson, "I'm not ready to push you when there is."

"But-"

"You're staying here. Morse will go with me."

"But you-"

"Am I clear?"

Scowling, Clint rolled his eyes and stalked away from Coulson. He flopped back onto the bed and sat leaning against the upraised headboard end, arms crossed over his chest like a petulant child and one leg dangling over the side.

Biting her lower lip for a moment, Bobbi shook herself out of her stupor at having been tapped and grabbed her own gear, pulling a pair of carbon steel batons out to keep at the ready. She mouthed an "I'm sorry" to Clint and went to join Coulson near the opening to the crawl space. He only looked away.

Carter and Coulson synchronized their watches and Nurse Gideon handed Coulson and Bobbi each a flashlight.

"Talk to you in ten minutes," Coulson said to Carter as Bobbi went into the crawlspace. Coulson followed her a moment later and Carter and Doctor Harris placed the panel back into place. Just before it closed, Coulson cast a look back into the room and just for a moment spotted Clint looking his way, a look of fear in his eyes.

* * *

The first ten minutes were agonizingly long. So were the next ten minutes after that. At first, Clint had paced the room, but Doctor Harris and Nurse Gideon quickly returned to mother hen mode and made him sit on the bed again, a blanket around his shoulders. He had to admit, he was feeling pretty cold and his stomach was horribly upset. Gideon had taken his temperature again and found that it had gone up three-tenths of a degree. Even so, Clint wasn't sure if it was the stomach bug or nerves.

Probably both. Goodie goodie.

Carter was occupied with her own activity, using the radio that she had had hidden in her shoe to try to reach her outside contact. Every few minutes, she would speak into it.

"Howard," she would say, "Howard, if you can hear me, answer." As time went on, the pleas turned more and more annoyed. "Howard, I know you're in DC, lobbying at the Capitol. I need you to pick up." And then later, "Howard I hope you haven't let the battery run down, right when I need to reach you. If you have, I've a localized EMP with your name on it when I'm done here."

Whoever this Howard person was, it seemed to be a very love-hate relationship.

Unable to stand just sitting and waiting, Clint had grabbed his gear and had his arrows laid out in front of him on the blanket. One by one, he inspected each arrow, checking the tips on the trick arrows and gauging the flex of the of carbon fiber shafts, just as Buck had taught him years ago.

The sour feeling in Clint's stomach increased a little at that. It just so happened that he was inspecting one of his explosive-tipped arrows at the very moment the thought had entered his head. And then, instead of all the years of learning from Buck, all the years of performing with him, all those years when it seemed like life couldn't get any better for a kid like him, were all drowned out by the memory of that horrible night that Buck had tried to kill him.

No. Not drowned. Burned.

Feeling a shiver up his spine, and having done all he could with his equipment, Clint packed the arrows back into their quiver and leaned back, pulling the blanket in tighter around his shoulders. The waiting was horrible. He should have been out there with Coulson. For all they knew, there wasn't anyone else who could get out to do anything. They needed every hand they could get and here he was sitting there, waiting.

 _"This is Pelican,"_ Coulson's voice came over the radio, hushed and breathy, just in time for his third check in, _"The armory is clear and secure. Mockingbird and I are on our way back."_

"Understood, Pelican," Carter replied into her radio, "thank you."

"That's such a dumb name," Clint grumbled, sinking himself deeper into the blanket.

"What?" Carter asked, looking over at him.

"The codename Coulson's using," Clint said, "who would be scared of a bigger, more awkward seagull that carries its dinner around in its mouth all day?"

"Pelicans can be quite formidable, actually," Carter replied, lighting on a nearby chair, "angry, territorial little beasts."

"Maybe, but they look stupid," Clint replied.

"Do you know the story of the pelican?" she asked him.

Clint gave a snort. "Once upon a time, there was a pelican. He woke up, caught a fish, and sat on a dock until the sun went down. The end."

Carter arched a greying eyebrow at him, a look of mild disapproval flashing across her face and adding a bit more crease to a few of the wrinkles. "I see the reports about your mouth are not unfounded," she said, "a polite yes or no would have sufficed, Mister Barton."

Clint deflated under her long-practiced, withering gaze, a dozen snappy comebacks retreating into the back of his throat as soon as he thought of them. "Yes, ma'am," he finally got out.

"Good," she said, "we'll try this again, then. Do you know the story of the pelican?"

"No, I didn't know there was one," he replied, then hastily added, "ma'am."

"A pelican laid a clutch of eggs," Carter said, "and when they hatched, everything was good, for a time. But then one day, her mate did not return, bringing them food. Days went by and the pelican knew her children would need food or they would certainly die. But she couldn't leave them unprotected, either. So finally, she pierced her own breast and allowed her children to take nourishment from her own blood."

There was a pause and Carter looked at him expectantly. It was a moment before Clint realized she was looking for some indication that he understood the story.

"So..." he said, finally, "pelicans are... vampires?"

He didn't, of course.

"That's what you got from that?" she asked him, looking confused. "What do they teach you Americans in high school, these days?"

Clint shifted uncomfortably, feeling that knot in his stomach growing again. He looked away and bit his lower lip, feeling his face grow warm.

"What is it?" Carter asked.

"I uh... I wouldn't actually know, ma'am."

It was Carter's turn to look embarrassed. "Oh, that's right, I forgot. My apologies," she said, to which Clint gave a non-committal shrug, still not meeting her gaze. "The pelican sacrificed of herself so that her children could survive," Carter continued, "the pelican is the very symbol of self-sacrifice and has been for centuries."

"Well, then it's as stupid as it looks," Clint grumbled, bitterly, "no one does that sort of thing for other people. It's a nice fairy tale, but in the real world, the pelican is more likely to eat her own kids to stay alive herself."

Carter looked at him for a long moment. She had that look in her eyes; the one that Clint had seen so many other times before and couldn't stand. It was the look that said that nothing was ever going to end well for Clint Barton and they always felt like they should be sad about it. Carter gave a sigh, pursing her lips.

"You _have_ had it rough," she said, sadly.

"I don't need anyone's pity," Clint replied, instantly, looking away and crossing her arms over his chest. He was sure it was unconvincing, though, since a shiver worked its way through him just then.

"No, I'm sure you don't," Carter replied, "but I imagine this tough-guy routine of yours is exhausting. Today it's landed you in medical, after all."

"Which I didn't need," Clint insisted.

"Just like you don't need to be hitting the heavy bag at eleven every night?"

Clint looked back at her, feeling a little bit like he had been caught doing something wrong. He had been heading to the gym almost every night after eating. He would stay there for hours, just getting another workout in. He hadn't told Coulson and he didn't think anyone else had noticed, either.

"This is an organization of spies, Mister Barton," Carter said, "there's not very much that escapes notice around here. So, training from five in the morning until seven at night and then in the gym until eleven and often times midnight. That leaves at best five hours to take care of yourself, including sleep and shower. It's no wonder you got sick. Your immune system must be in the toilet."

"Due respect, ma'am," Clint ground out, looking away again, "but I don't think that's any of your business."

Carter's eyebrows rose. She was clearly taken aback. "Until Nick Fury takes over as Director, it bloody well is," she stated in a tone that left no room for debate, "everyone in SHIELD is my business, from the top-tier agents to the newest recruits. And I'll not have one of the most talented recruits this organization has ever seen work himself to death because he's afraid we're going to toss him out."

That snapped Clint's eyes back to her so quickly he felt vaguely like he got whiplash. He couldn't say anything. Every word he thought of turned to ash on his tongue. And he couldn't stop the damn shiver that had taken hold.

"I've hit the nail on the head, haven't I?" she asked. Clint just slid his gaze away again. "I understand what you've been through up until now, but-"

"I don't want to talk about this any more," Clint interrupted, decorum and politeness be damned. He looked away and resettled the blanket again.

"All right, fine," Carter said, her tone gentling, "but you need to understand. SHIELD isn't going to abandon you just because you aren't perfect right out of the gate."

He was still looking away, but he felt her rest a hand on his shoulder. The touch closed his throat a little bit and he tried to swallow, but found nothing there.

"You're not alone, here," she pressed.

Goddamn the stupid stomach flu! He couldn't stop shivering. The silence seemed to stretch on forever.

 _"Hello?"_ a voice suddenly materialized in the air between them, sounding distant and tinny. _"Is there someone there?"_ With a jolt, Carter turned her attention to the radio that was in her other hand.

"Yes! Yes! Hello!" she said into it frantically. "Howard?"

" _N... no,_ " the voice answered, _"I'm afraid he isn't in at the moment. Um... could I take a message?"_ Clearly whoever was speaking to them was unsure of how to react.

"Mister Jarvis, is that you?" Carter asked.

 _"Miss Carter?"_ the voice seemed surprised. _"I dearly hope that's really you because otherwise I must have gone quite mad, seeing as I am talking to a shoe."_ There was a short sniffing noise. _"A rather old one, from the smell of it."_

Carter gave a lop-sided smile. "Yes, Mister Jarvis, it's really me," she replied, "I need to talk to Howard, quickly."

 _"I'm afraid he's on the Hill,"_ Jarvis replied, _"unreachable. Are... are you in some sort of trouble?"_

"I'm afraid so," Carter replied, "someone's broken into the Triskelion and has the place on complete lockdown. Apparently, they want me for some reason. I need some outside help, Mister Jarvis. Are you up for a little bit of excitement?"

 _"Oh, absolutely, Miss Carter,"_ Jarvis replied, sounding a little disturbingly excited at the prospect, _"it's been far too long."_

* * *

Getting through the crawl space was a lot harder with packs of supplies on their backs. The space was narrow and cramped and the full backpacks made Coulson and Bobbi crouch low as they crawled, like house cats stalking prey. Bobbi found she had to crane her neck in order to see ahead and it was starting to wear.

At long last, Coulson came to a stop in front of her and wriggled around until he was sitting next to a flat, dead-end. He knocked on it three times and a moment later the dead end fell away and light spilled into the dark passage. Bobbi squinted back the light as she and Coulson climbed out into the infirmary room where they had started.

"What have you got?" Carter asked as they replaced the panel again.

"Near as we can tell," Coulson reported, "Fixer has Fury on the 56th floor in the operations room."

"We didn't have time to go up there and see what sort of help he's got," Bobbi put in, "but it looks like that whole floor is sealed off. No gas."

"What about all the people on that floor?" Harris asked.

"No idea," Coulson said with a shake of his head, "hopefully, they're just locked into their offices. Near as we can tell, there's no one else out and moving. Just the six of us. Were you able to contact Stark?"

"Not exactly," said Carter with a bemused expression. "Mister Jarvis answered."

"Jarvis?" Coulson asked, starting to empty the contents of his backpack onto a table. "He's still working for Stark, after all this time?"

Carter gave a huff of a laugh. "I'm pretty sure one of them will have to die to split them up," she said, "I've sent him to my flat in Georgetown. I've a terminal there that can access the SUBNET."

"What's a SUBNET?" Bobbi asked.

"SHEILD Ulterior Backdoor Network," Coulson replied.

It was like he was speaking a foreign language. The individual words made sense, but together they sounded silly. "That sounds like someone really wanted that to spell SUBNET," she said, "what does it do?"

"About ten years ago, computer scientists in the private sector began experimenting with connecting computers to each other over phone lines," Carter said, " they called it DarpaNet, back then. Now it's called the Internet. SHEILD has been working on the same for... well, longer."

"So, you've got a computer off-site that can access computers here?" Gideon asked. "Isn't that kind of a security breach?"

"Nah," Coulson said, "every hacker who's been able to break into SUBNET works for us, now."

"Mister Jarvis will access the security systems in the Triskelion remotely and provide us what intel he can," Carter went on.

"What if Fixer has someone monitoring your place?" Bobbi asked.

"Mister Jarvis can handle it," Carter replied without hesitation.

"So, who is he, anyway?" Bobbi pressed. "Stark's bodyguard or something?"

"His butler," Carter said, beginning to look over the pile of objects that Coulson had unpacked.

Bobbi had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Seven people to retake SHEILD's most secure base; Coulson, the aging director, a doctor, a nurse, two trainees, one of whom was sick, and now...

"Are you kidding me?" Clint spoke up from his cocoon of blankets on the bed. It was the first time he had said anything since she and Coulson had returned. "We're getting help from Howard Stark's _butler_?"

She had to admit, it was the thought that was running through her head at the moment.

"Don't let that fool you," Carter said, loading a handgun with a clip and locking it in place, "Edwin Jarvis is more than capable. He's a former member of the RAF and smuggled his wife out of Poland during the Nazi regime. Since then, he's been an invaluable resource to both the SSR and SHIELD as well as a loyal friend. I trust him with my life." She leveled a gaze at Clint. " _If_ that meets with your _approval_ , Mister Barton."

"Sure, old guy butler assassin," Clint groused back, "what's not to love?"

"Barton," Coulson said with a warning tone.

"Oh, just leave it, Coulson," Carter cut back in, "it is rather silly, when you say it aloud. And we've more important things to attend to than your protege's mouth."

Said mouth was now having a thermometer imposed upon it by nurse Gideon once more, even as Clint gave a sour look. Bobbi wondered if the timing of it was intentional on Gideon's part. From the look in her eye, it probably was.

"Well," Carter said, surveying the pile of supplies once more, "side arms, gasmasks, smoke and stun grenades, tasers. Not bad for a quick supply raid. Now we just need Mister Jarvis' input."

 _"Input I am happy to say you'll have momentarily,"_ Jarvis' voice came through the shoe radio just then, _"by the way, Miss Carter, how did you know I would have the key you gave Mister Stark?"_

"Jarvis, you keep track of _his son_ better than he does," Carter replied with a wry look.

 _"Fair point,"_ Jarvis conceded, _"I'll just need the password for your login."_

"Howling Commando six-one-six," she replied, "capitals on the Howling and Commando."

 _"Very good,"_ Jarvis said, _"and just what am I poking around for?"_

"We need eyes on the 56th floor," Coulson said, "it's too much data for you to access the video from the security cameras there, but the SUBNET servers take screen shots as still images every thirty seconds. See if you can access those files."

 _"Yes, I've found it,"_ Jarvis replied, _"it's going to take a few minutes to download today's folder."_

"Obviously, we don't have numbers on our side," Coulson said while they were waiting, "I suggest continuing on with our stealth op. With the masks, we can navigate the corridors. I can work on taking down some of Fixer's men one at a time. Meanwhile, Morse can keep to the crawl-ways. If I can make enough of a distraction to draw out Fixer, she can get to Fury and get him out."

"Taking away his leverage," Bobbi said in agreement.

"Exactly," said Coulson with a nod, "giving us the time we need to clean up the problem completely."

"Oh, simple as that?" Clint chimed in around his thermometer. Gideon gave him an annoyed glance, but he pressed on. "Just take 'em out nice and quiet like, one by one? There's gotta be fifty guys up there!"

Coulson gave him a lop-sided grin of incredulity. "There's a vote of confidence I'll try not to take personally," he said.

"Dammit!" Clint exclaimed, then tore the thermometer out of his mouth and threw back the blanket to get up and stalk over to his SO. "Stop being an idiot! What happens when you gotta shoot one of 'em? I don't see any silencers in that stash you brought back! Everyone up there will hear it and you'll get piled on!"

"I don't plan to be shooting anyone," Coulson shot back.

"Just like you didn't plan for us to all get stuck in here?"

"Mister Barton, you are out of line," Carter warned sternly.

"The hell with that!" Clint said. "My bow is a hell of a lot quieter than his gun. You need me!"

"You're still running a fever of..." Coulson trailed off and looked over to Gideon.

"101," she supplied.

"101!" Coulson pressed on. "And besides, getting in here had to be a stealth op on their part, too. We would have noticed fifty guys storming the place."

Clint was immediately on the heels of that, almost talking over Coulson. "I don't care! It could be one guy, for all we know, but he's probably well-armed and all we've got is a table full of cast-offs!"

"I'm not putting you out there in the state you're in!"

"You know, sometimes I just wanna punch you in the teeth!"

"Go ahead and try! I've had enough of your attitude!"

"Gentlemen, enough!" Carter howled over them, stunning them both to silence though they both continued to glare at each other. Carter pressed on. "It's obvious that you two have a lot to work past, but right now I frankly don't give a damn. I'll not have you at each other's throats in the middle of a crisis. Since you two can't seem to agree on this, it will be my decision. Is that clear?"

Clint and Coulson continued to glare at each other. To Bobbi, it looked for all the world like they were about to break into a fight, Director's orders or not. No answer was forthcoming from either of them.

"I said, is that clear?" Carter barked again.

"Yes, ma'am," Coulson said first. Clint echoed it immediately as they both turned away from each other and stalked about the room like wild beasts just barely under control.

The room was a tense silence for several long moments. Harris and Gideon had watched the exchange with barely contained horror. They seemed stunned into another and better incarnation. Bobbi edged toward them a bit, figuring she could get them on the ground fast if sharp implements suddenly started flying.

The sound of a throat clearing came from the shoe radio thingy, finally breaking the silence. _"If I might be so bold,"_ Jarvis said, _"I'm afraid he's actually right."_

"What?" Carter said, turning her attention back to the radio. "Which one?"

 _"Well, uh,"_ Jarvis stuttered, _"I'm sorry, I don't... uhm... the one that's not Agent Coulson?"_

"Barton," Carter supplied. Both Coulson and Clint spun around, each about to say something biting at the situation. Carter held up one finger, cutting that off. "Not one word, either of you."

 _"Mister Barton, yes,"_ Jarvis confirmed, _"from what I can see, it started just just as Agent Coulson said. But ever since, more and more men have been joining them, all of them armed to the teeth, I'm afraid."_

"Makes sense," Bobbi offered, "they have control of the lockdown, they can let their own guys in to reinforce their position."

Carter sighed heavily, crossing her arms and tilting her head toward the ceiling. "We've little choice," she muttered. She took a calming breath and then turned her attention to Doctor Harris. "Is there anything that can ease Barton's symptoms for a few hours, Doctor?"

"Director," Coulson began in protest, coming up next to her shoulder in two strides. She held up her hand to silence him.

"Doctor?" she pressed.

"Sure," Harris said with a shrug, "I mean it's not my favorite choice. Usually it's best to let a fever run its course if it doesn't get dangerously high. But there are fever reducers and anti-nausea meds in that cabinet there."

Carter hesitated for a moment, looking to the floor as she considered both sides of the debate. A moment later she looked up at Clint, with appraisal.

"Director, I _can_ do this," Clint said, his voice strangely low and calm after the recent exchange with Coulson.

Tightly, she nodded to Clint. "Get a dose of each ready, then, Doctor Harris," she said, "and gear up, Mister Barton."

Turning away to pace the room again, Coulson gave a grunt of frustration as Clint plunked himself back on the bed and rolled up a sleeve. Harris rooted around in the cabinet for a few moments, then produced two vials and a syringe. Gideon began an alcohol wipe on Clint's arm as Harris readied the doses.

Coulson's pacing settled as Harris and Gideon did their work. He lighted in the corner nearest the secret crawlspace and looked away from the scene, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. Carter wandered over to him and spoke to him low enough that Bobbi couldn't hear what was being said. Coulson still looked livid, though and Carter was obviously talking him back. Eventually, she rested a hand on his shoulder and said something that seemed to land. Coulson looked over at Clint with an odd look of... what was that? Fear? Then he looked to the floor, nodding to Carter in some kind of understanding.

Bobbi rolled her eyes and shook her head, watching Coulson and Clint eye each other warily. "Those two are hopeless," she muttered. She realized then that Gideon had joined her, leaning against the counter top on which Bobbi had lighted.

"Men are just so damned stubborn," she agreed.

"Yeah, they're both pretty smart, though," Bobbi said, "eventually, they'll figure it out. I just hope I can survive the process."


	4. Chapter Three

Coulson hadn't said a word since they had parted ways with Bobbi. And even before then, everything he had said had been addressed to Bobbi and not to Clint. There was no mistaking it; Coulson was pissed as hell. And why the hell shouldn't he be, really? Clint had basically gone over his head by appealing to Director Carter. It was obviously a blow to Coulson's pride and a pretty blatant undermining of his authority.

Silently, Clint berated himself as they both crept down the length of the crawlspace. Coulson was the one guy left on the planet who was willing to give him an honest-to-god chance to make something of himself and he had to go and piss him off. Odds were good that Coulson would be putting in to have Clint's training transferred to someone else. And given that everyone else around the place seemed to hate his guts, he figured that he was, right now, running his one and only op with SHIELD.

If it was going to be his only one, Clint decided he would wow them. Some razzle-dazzle, as they used to say back at the carnival. He'd at least leave an impression on his way out the door to god-knows-where. Maybe Marcella would take him back, though how he was going to get back down to Texas he had no idea. Assuming, of course, the carnival was still there.

Today sucked. Clint really wanted to go back to bed.

Coulson came to a halt next to a panel in the crawlspace with a small hand-hold at the top. It looked like it was spring-loaded and there was a rubber gaskit around the edge of it. Two dead-bolt locks, one on either side, held the hatch closed.

"All right," Coulson said looking at his watch, "we've got fifteen minutes before Fixer's deadline. Mockingbird should be in position by now. This hatch leads out into a hallway on the 55th floor. There'll be gas out there, so get your mask on."

"Just one question before we do this," Clint said as they both retrieved their masks from their belts and adjusted the straps. "Just why in the hell were you trying to keep me from doing this with you?"

Coulson fixed him with a scowl. "Stay on mission, Hawkeye," he said, pulling his mask over his head, "that's an order."

Clint gave a growl at the back of his throat and began to pull his own mask on. "Yes, sir, Pelican, sir," he muttered, rebelliously.

As soon as he was satisfied that they both hand their masks on securely, Coulson carefully undid the dead-bolts holding the hatch shut. Carefully, silently, he reached for the hand-hold and pulled it back. A thin wisp of what looked like smoke threaded in through the tiny gap. Coulson peered out through the gap, looking both ways down the hallway as best he could, then he pulled it open, the hatch now resting on the floor, and he began to climb over it. Clint put a hand on the back edge to keep it from slamming shut. When Coulson had climbed out into the hallway, Clint followed him over the hatch, careful to keep a hand behind him to keep it from slamming. As soon as it had closed back into place, he stood up to his full height and grabbed his bow from its place on his quiver. With a shake, he extended it to its full length, then nodded at Coulson.

They were in motion a moment later, heading for the nearest exit to a stairwell. Jarvis had informed them that it was the particular stairwell that the bad guys were using to get their people up from the lower floors to fortify the 56th. The lockdown barriers were not in place, so they would be able to use the stairs to go one floor up and start taking down Fixer's guys.

The stairwell was dark and empty, thankfully, so they were able to make their way up unhindered. They approached the door and Coulson silently got Clint's attention. He pointed to a glass-encased ax just outside the door, one of those red-wedged fire emergency jobs with a long handle. Coulson then pointed to Clint, and then to his own head.

Remember this is here. Clint nodded that he understood. He could think of a lot of ways a simple fire ax could be used as a weapon and evidently so could Coulson.

Coulson carefully leaned against the door to the 56th floor hallway, putting an ear to it. Clint heard muffled voices talking low, just on the other side. He wondered what Coulson's trained ear was hearing.

Coulson looked back at Clint and held up two fingers. Then, he pointed to Clint and then to the right side of the door. Then he pointed to himself and then the left side. Clint again nodded his understanding and took up a position behind Coulson, ready to go through the door right on his tail.

Coulson gave a silent countdown on his fingers and then wrenched the door open, sailing through and to the left. Clint's target gave a surprised start and before the guy could react properly, Clint had a hand in his hair, pulling his head back and snaking one leg around the guy's. With his other hand, he snatched the radio from the guy's belt before he could reach it. Coulson had dragged his target back through the door into the stairwell and Clint followed suit. By the time he was back through the door with his opponent, Clint noticed that Coulson had already bereft his of the gas mask he was wearing. The thug was sputtering for breath in the gasses that floated in the stairwell and began to weave, though still trying to fight back and get his mask back.

Clint continued to grapple with his guy and they both bucked backward. Clint's back slammed into the metal railing in between the two flights of stairs. Clint kept a vice-grip in the guy's hair and pulled, snaking his other arm around the railing and then under the guy's armpit and pressed it against the back of the thug's neck. The thug's left arm flailed uselessly in the air. Neither of them were moving any time soon.

Coulson's guy finally went down, sinking to his knees and his eyes rolling back into his head before he face-planted, his head dangling down the downward flight of stairs rather uncomfortably as his entire body went slack. Coulson didn't even wait to see that he had stopped moving and spun around to grab Clint's target's other arm, twisting it behind him. With his other hand, he tore the thug's mask off, tossing it over the railing to land somewhere far below, and clamped a hand over his mouth. The three of them stayed locked like that for long moments while the thug continued to thrash. But soon his strength left him and he, too, succumbed to the knock out gas.

"Well, that's two down," Clint crowed, careful to keep his voice low.

"Lots more to go," Coulson replied, "we got a lot of work ahead of us. Keep focused."

"Right," Clint said with a resigned sigh as Coulson once again pulled the door open and entered the hallway. "Would it kill ya? 'Not bad, Clint, the training's really paying off.' Just once?" He allowed himself the short moment of carping to himself, then followed Coulson through the door and on to their next targets.

* * *

They continued on in much the same way as they navigated through the hallways. Evidently, the Fixer had decided there was some value in having at least part of the floor filled with the lockdown's knockout gas. It was also partly because of practicality, he supposed. After all, there wasn't any sort of pressurized airlock for the stairwell and that was filled with the stuff, too.

Silently, they left a path of unconscious bad guys in their wake, with various states of head-trauma. But they also removed the masks of everyone they took down, ensuring that they wouldn't be waking up any time soon.

They were only a couple of corridors up from the briefing auditorium by the time they reached a pressurized metal door with a large window of high-impact plexiglass in the top of it. Coulson kept them close to the wall as they approached and carefully peered through. Then he backed them off away from the door and kept his voice low.

"There's four of 'em," Coulson whispered, "none with masks. Here's where the gas ends."

"How are we gonna take down four quietly?" Clint asked, his voice also hushed.

"We're not," Coulson said, drawing his gun and checking the clip to ensure it was fully loaded. "This is where we give Mockingbird her distraction. All hell is going to break loose when we go through that door. You've got your trick arrows, right?"

"Course," Clint replied.

"Break out a net," said Coulson, "see if you can tie up one or two of 'em. Thin their ranks a little."

Clint gave a lop-sided, mischievous grin and he pulled the arrow in question from his quiver and knocked it on the string.

Silently, the pair crept back to the door and Clint took up position behind Coulson once again. Glancing through the window, he sighted his targets for the net; two of them, slouching against a wall in perfect position to find themselves pinned to it.

Coulson gave the count and then burst through the door, a pressurized hiss going with them. In the blink of an eye, Clint had his targets sighted and let fly the arrow. The tip broke open into several smaller darts, each dragging an anchor-point of a net through the air. It spread out and pinned itself to the wall, tangling the two targets. Clint spun, ducking a wild swing from one of the other bad guys. Shouts filled the hallway and the patter of feet could be heard coming their way. Using his bow as a staff, Clint charged and knocked the guy that had taken a swing at him head-first into the wall. He tumbled to the floor and lay there in a heap. Coulson, too, made short-work of his guy just in time to see three more thugs come barreling down the hallway toward them. He fired two shots, catching one guy in the knee and another in the shoulder. They both went down screaming. By then, the third was close enough to take a swing at Coulson. Clint readied another arrow and took aim, pinning the guy's other hand to the wall. This thug, too, gave a pained wail. Clint allowed himself a grin of satisfaction.

It was short lived, however, as a moment later, Coulson grabbed his bicep and pulled, stepping to Clint's other side as he did. He vaguely heard Coulson call his name as he did. Then, there was a loud bang and Coulson lurched back against him, holding his left shoulder as his left arm went limp. The agent nearly sunk to his knees, but Clint was able to catch him, dragging him back toward the door they had come through. As he pushed his way through with his mentor stumbling along in tow, he noticed that one of the netted thugs had managed to reach his gun and was trying to line up another shot, though he was hindered by the netting.

Just before letting the door swing shut, Clint grabbed a flash bang from Coulson's belt, pulled the pin and threw it back into the hallway. Then, he slung his bow over his back and pulled Coulson's good arm over his shoulder. Coulson was gasping and grunting with pain as they stumbled along, following the trail of unconscious men they had left behind. It wasn't long before Coulson was flagging, but Clint was able to get them past the door to the stairwell, then lowered the agent to the floor.

With an elbow, Clint broke the glass encasing the fire ax, then used the end of his bow to clear the shards away enough that he could retrieve it. With the biggest swing he could muster in the tight space, he wedged the ax head under the door, jamming it closed at least for a little while. But he knew that would only buy them a bit of time. Quickly he returned to Coulson and pulled the agent to his feet.

"C'mon, c'mon!" he exclaimed. "We gotta go!"

Together, they stumbled down the stairs back to the 55th floor. Clint could see the color beginning to drain from Coulson's face and the agent was getting heavier in his grasp. By the time they were through the door to the 55th floor and had returned to their secret panel, he could hear repeated thuds from the stairwell door above. Quickly, he pressed the panel open and shoved Coulson through. With some last unspent reserve of strength, Coulson pulled himself along, allowing space for Clint to dive in after him as he heard the door upstairs give way. As the patter of feet on stairs came down, Clint got the panel back in place and threw the two deadbolts.

Coulson was awkwardly leaned against the side of the crawlspace, gasping for air and pressing a hand to his profusely bleeding shoulder. Just outside, there were feet coming down the hallway. Clint grabbed on to Coulson, tearing the mask off his face and clamping a hand over his mouth.

The sounds of voices muffled by masks and booted feet clattered down the hallway on the other side of the panel. One voice rose above the others.

"You two, that way," the voice said and Clint realized it sounded familiar. It was the same voice that had made demands over the loud speaker almost two hours ago, now. The Fixer himself had come to oversee the chase. "You two, take the next corridor over! You, with me! Don't let them off this floor!"

The patter of feet faded away from them and Clint took his own mask off, trying to get a better look at Coulson. Blood was welling up from the agent's shoulder and he was still gasping, looking more pale than before.

"Oh, god!" Clint exclaimed, still keeping his voice low, though beginning to panic a little. "Why would you do that? Why the hell would you do that!?"

Coulson's blood-covered hand reached out and landed on Clint's forearm, demanding his attention. Coulson fixed his protege with a stare, his teeth clenched together.

"Stay focused!" Coulson ordered. "Back to home base! Go!"

"I'm not leaving you here," Clint ground out.

"Hell, no," Coulson replied wryly, though his face was still drawn, "you're gonna drag my ass back to Harris and Gideon. Get moving."

Without hesitation, Clint shifted so that he could sling Coulson across his back, allowing him to keep weight off his arms and crawl only with his knees. It was a slow and painful process, but in that way they began to make progress back toward the medical wing.

Clint reached back and retrieved the radio from Coulson's pocket. He keyed to talk. "This is Hawkeye," he said into it as they clumsily continued along the crawlspace, "Pelican's been hit! He doesn't look good. We're heading back. Have help ready!"

 _"Hawkeye, what's the injury,"_ Doctor Harris' voice came over the radio next.

"Gun shot, left shoulder," Clint replied.

_"Exit wound?"_

"No."

_"All right, do what you can to keep pressure on it and get him back here as quick as you can. We're going to need to dig that slug out before sepsis sets in."_

"Yeah, yeah, got it," Clint breathed out, then shoved the radio into his own pocket. Then, he put all his focus on moving forward toward their goal.

It took nearly twenty minutes for Clint to haul Coulson back to the panel that led to the room in the medical ward. He banged on the panel urgently until it fell away and hands reached in to lift Coulson off his back. By then, Coulson didn't seem to be completely aware and there was no hope of him getting his own legs under him. Harris and Gideon carried him over to the bed and somehow got him on to it. Coulson's breathing was shallow and rapid and his face had a sickly grey pallor to it.

Clint tumbled out of the crawlspace, allowing Carter to place the panel back in its spot. Clint pushed off the floor and dashed for the bed, leaning a hand against the up-turned end, just to the side of Coulson's head. His own breathing wasn't much better than Coulson's.

"He's in shock," Harris pronounced, "get the oxygen. We gotta get his BP back up." Gideon nodded and was in motion, wheeling a tank and a mask over to them.

Clint registered very little of this, his focus on Coulson as he fought to get control of his panic.

"What the hell was that!?" Clint shouted. "Why the hell did you do that!?"

"Out of the way, Barton!" Gideon snapped. "Let us work!"

"What the hell was that about!?" Clint continued to rage.

"Director!" Gideon called. Hands were on Clint's shoulders a moment later, pulling him away from the bed to give the doctor and the nurse space to do their job.

"Over here, Clint, over here," the Director's voice was in his ear a moment later, "give them space. Come over here and calm down."

The sense of that finally penetrated the haze that had settled around Clint's mind. He shook loose of Carter's grasp and backed up against the wall, running his hands through his hair and watching the frenzy of activity around Coulson. Soon, he found his legs giving way under him and he slid down the wall, resting his elbows on his knees. Carter crouched down next to him, lighting her hands on his shoulders once again and placing herself in Clint's line of sight.

"Listen, eyes on me!" she said, commanding yet gentle.

"Why'd he do that?" Clint whimpered.

"It's all right, you got him back to us," Carter said, "forget everything else. You _got him back here_. Focus on that. He has the help he needs."

Clint's breathing began to slow and he jammed his fists into his forehead, his head falling forward.

"Why'd he do that?" he repeated.

Carter shifted and pulled him closer, rubbing circles on his back. "It's all right," she said, "calm down. He's safe. You're both safe."

Unable to help himself, Clint buried his face in Carter's shoulder and clasped on to her for dear life. He just wasn't sure if it was his own or Coulson's life he was hanging on for.

* * *

Fury was heavy. And big. Helping him through the crawlspace with a broken leg was an ordeal that Bobbi hoped never to have to endure again. She supposed it could be worse. He could be unconscious. If that had been the case, she had no idea how she would have managed it. On the other hand, the obscenities that kept coming out of his mouth were... creative.

According to Fury, Fixer had seen fit to make it harder to get away and one of his thugs had used something big and metal. Apparently, the Assistant Director of SHIELD had a reputation.

So when the panel to the room in the medical ward opened up and others appeared to help Fury out of the crawlspace, Bobbi was relieved, to say the least.

Well, for a moment. Then she got out of the crawlspace, too.

Coulson was on the bed that had previously been reserved for the flu-ridden Clint, an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and an IV in his arm. He was presently unconscious and that was probably a good thing as Doctor Harris was working at his shoulder with sharp implements. Gideon was nearby assisting and they were functioning like a well-oiled machine.

Carter helped Fury over to a nearby chair. The Assistant Director was keeping any and all weight off his left leg and any time it was jostled, he let out another swear.

Clint, meanwhile, was her biggest worry when Bobbi saw him. He was sitting on the floor, against the wall, his eyes fixed on Coulson, Harris, and Gideon across the room. Bobbi had the distinct impression that he had withdrawn. She had never seen him like this. Cranky, sure. Flirtatious, of course. Rebellious, hell yeah. But never like this.

Harris and Gideon would see to Coulson. Fury was taking the broken leg in stride, cursing besides. But what to do about Clint, Bobbi had no idea. So she did the only thing she could do and plopped herself down on the floor next to him. When it became obvious that no reaction was forthcoming from him, she broke the ice herself.

"Doin' okay, sport?" she asked, nudging his shoulder with her own.

"I don't get it," Clint said at last, "he just... stepped right in between me and the bullet."

"Wait, he took a bullet saving you?" she said, amazed. "Damn, talk about dedication."

"Yeah, but _why_?" Clint pressed, finally looking over at her. He looked genuinely confused.

Bobbi was too, actually. "What do you mean?" she asked.

She didn't get a chance to hear an answer, though. The speaker of the announcement system came to life again with a crackle and a moment of feedback.

 _"Very clever, Director Carter,"_ the Fixer's voice came over the loudspeaker a moment later, _"using the deadline I set myself as a countdown to coordinate a covert rescue at the moment I would least expect it. Not bad at all."_

The mocking voice seemed to be enough to rally Clint a little and he started and then climbed to his feet, listening. Bobbi got up, too and tried to keep down the sinking feeling in her stomach. Fixer also appeared to have the attention of Carter and Fury and was at least providing a distraction for Harris and Gideon. The doctor and nurse both paused when they first heard his voice, then continued.

 _"Doing exactly what I expected as a distraction, too,"_ Fixer continued, _"for a little bit, I actually thought you were attempting an assault on the 56th floor. Obviously, you have ways around the building of which I was not aware. But with the entire building on lockdown, you have no way_ out. _So, now it's just a matter of time. You see, with Fury rescued, I don't have to worry about guarding him any more, so I can send men out to search the building and find you. You've bought yourself some time, Director. But I happen to know it cost you dearly. With Fury injured and another of your men shot, I imagine you're hard-up for help. So go ahead and hide. I've got all the time in the world."_

"Well, that don't help one damn bit," said Fury after the loudspeaker had cut off with another short burst of static, "we might need to move. Anyone have any ideas?"

"Coulson's not going anywhere until I can get his shoulder patched up," said Harris as he pulled at something with a pair of heavy tweezers. Something came loose and he reach over and dropped something hard into a pan,"got the slug out, though. No sign of any infection, so it shouldn't be long."

"Work as quick as you can, Doctor," said Carter, reaching for the shoe-radio, "Mister Jarvis, any indication they've found our little mouse holes, yet?"

 _"Not so far,"_ Jarvis replied, _"but I wouldn't count on that for long. If I can see the entry and exit points, then so can they. I imagine they'll be checking surveillance soon."_

"Then we need to come up with a plan sooner rather than later," said Carter, "I want ideas."

"Well, the crawlspace is like a maze," said Bobbi, "once Coulson can move, we could hide out in there for quite a while, even if they only know about the two access points. We know the building, they don't."

"No," said Carter with a shake of her head, "with two wounded, we'd be moving too slow and making too much noise. We can make a short move to another location, but that's all."

"What about all the other agents locked up in their offices?" Fury asked. "Any way to get them out?"

"Mister Jarvis?" Carter prompted.

 _"I'm afraid I can't access that system,"_ he replied, _"Fixer has full control over it. If I try to override, he'll know I'm watching. And It probably wouldn't work, anyway. I'm afraid he's hit us rather hard."_

"Hit back."

Carter, Fury, and Bobbi all turned to look at Clint, rather surprised he had said anything. He wasn't looking at any of them. His eyes were focused a million miles away, as if remembering something long past.

"Mister Barton?" Carter asked, obviously hoping he would elaborate.

Clint's head snapped up to look at them and Bobbi nearly jumped. There was a cold steel in his gaze. "We hit 'em back," he said, "he hit us, so we hit him back. He hits us harder, we hit him harder. We don't stop hitting until he does first."

"You want to go on the offensive with just three able-bodied agents?" Fury said incredulously. "Two of whom, I might add, are trainees of less than a year."

"I know the Fixer's type," Clint replied, "he thinks he's the tough guy, in control, that we'll just roll over if he hits us hard enough. The only thing you can do against that is hit back." The muscles in Clint's jaw were jumping as he clenched his teeth. He looked at the three of them with a certainty that Bobbi had never seen before, as if this was his oldest and most deeply held truth. And the longer Bobbi looked at him, the more she was convinced, too.

"It _would_ be what he least expects," she said, "this guy's got an ego the size of Texas. He thinks we're running scared and he's operating based on that."

"Just for the record," Gideon put in from her place next to Harris, helping him stitch Coulson's wound closed, "I'm scared. Just saying."

"He's scattering his men to look for us," Carter mused, "meaning there will be fewer men to contend with on the 56th floor. And with the lockdown in place, he'll need to release it selectively to let his men move about."

"Meaning he'll be at the controls with a skeleton crew around him," Fury agreed, "we take him, everything else falls apart, we regain control of the Triskelion and suddenly we've got the manpower 'cause we can set our guys loose."

"It's risky," said Carter, "if it doesn't work, we'll have exposed ourselves and he'll have us. But it may be the only option."

"Yeah, well it's better than sitting around here waiting to be found," Clint said.

"All right, then, it's settled," said Carter, "we hit back."

* * *

Clint felt like crap. There was just no way around it. The meds that Harris had given him earlier had helped take the edge off, but he was definitely still feverish and his stomach was still tied in knots. After his display of bravado had gotten the group galvanized into action, Clint had retreated back to his place on the floor. He had his head down and his eyes closed and was only vaguely listening to the brainstorming session that Carter, Fury, and Bobbi were having. Harris and Gideon had finished stitching Coulson up a while ago and now it was a waiting game for him to wake up.

It was all just too much. This world was so different from what he thought it would be. It wasn't that he thought it would be all sunshine and kittens. He didn't have any delusions about that. He just didn't think that he would be stuck in an impossible situation, where people were shooting at him, so damned soon. And he sure as hell didn't expect it to be happening at SHIELD's home base.

But more than that, it was that _he_ was different. Clint was not the kind of person that the rest of the agents of SHIELD were. He wasn't super-intelligent. He wasn't a tactical genius. He sure as hell wasn't administratively inclined. And above all, he couldn't figure why someone would take a bullet for someone else. That sort of thing only happened in action movies and cop shows and shit. SHIELD was all military discipline and serious business and danger. Clint was just a washed up circus freak with good aim.

No, Clint Barton didn't fit in. Story of his life, really.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting there. Long enough for his butt to get cold on the linoleum. His head felt like lead as he looked up to see Gideon looking down at him.

"Holding up?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Honey, I don't need to be a nurse to know that's not true," she replied. Clint only slid his gaze to the side. "I got some good news, though," Gideon continued, "he's awake. And he wants to talk to you."

Clint looked back up at her, then his gaze shot over to the bed where Coulson was resting. Sure enough, his SO's eyes were open and were looking his way.

Clint swallowed a lump in his throat and slowly got to his feet. The few steps across the room felt like a mile and he noticed that Gideon had not followed him. Harris, too, had given them space. Clint and Coulson looked at each other for a long moment.

"Hi," Coulson finally said, his voice sounding raspy and tired.

"Hi," Clint responded, lamely.

"You okay?"

"You're the one who needed to get stitched up and you're wondering if _I'm_ okay?"

"Yeah," said Coulson with a wry smile, "that does sound kinda dumb, I guess. Still, it's my job. But that isn't the question you want an answer to."

Clint took a long moment to consider what he needed to say. What does one say to someone who got shot because you screwed up? An apology seemed just a little bit inadequate.

"I screwed up," was what he finally got out, "I screwed up and it won't happen again. So... so you're off the hook. As soon as this is over I am gone and out of your hair and-"

"If there's a question at the end of this ramble, you're taking a long time to get to it," Coulson said, looking at Clint with a mixture of confusion and a little bit of amusement, but still gentle, "c'mon. Ask it."

Clint's throat clenched up. It felt like his breath had just stopped coming. He tried to frame the word but it took several tries to get the breath out.

"Why?" he finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm your SO," Coulson said, "and we were on an op and you were my partner."

"But he was aiming at me."

"Yeah, he was," Coulson replied, "but better my shoulder than your head."

"But... why? I mean... people don't just _do_ that. They just _don't_."

"You mean they don't do that _for you_ ," Coulson cut back in again, "and I've told you, things are different here."

"But you don't even..." Clint trailed off. Somehow, he couldn't make the words come out.

"Don't even what?" Coulson asked, looking genuinely confused.

He couldn't look at him any more as the words finally tumbled out. "You don't even _like_ me."

There was a long moment of silence between them. Clint couldn't help but look back at Coulson again to gauge his reaction. If Coulson had looked confused before, it didn't hold a candle to the look on his face now.

"Ouch," Coulson finally said, "when did you get that idea? I mean, I took a bullet for you. What's a guy gotta do, anyway?"

And then the floodgates opened. Clint couldn't stop what started coming out of his mouth. "Yeah, but _why_?" he asked. "What the hell did I ever do for you? What was the point of it? Why would someone like you do that for a... a worthless piece of trash like me?"

"There it is," said Coulson, "that's the question you mean to ask. I needed you to say it so it's out in the open. So we both understand what's being asked. But I think I know why you're asking it better than you do. You've been told you were worthless back as far as you can remember. People have walked out on you, beat you up, even tried to kill you. That's not what people do when they think you're worth something."

Clint didn't have the energy to stay on his feet any more. Eyes fixed on the floor, he dropped into the plastic chair next to Coulson.

Coulson pressed on. "Clint, you're not garbage. A little broken, maybe. But that's what happens to a thing you don't take care of. And I don't throw something away just because it needs a little work. Neither does SHIELD. So I don't ever want to hear those words from you again. Got it?"

Clint couldn't look up at him again. In fact, he couldn't even seem to keep his eyes open any more.

"C'mon, I need some kind of response, here," Coulson pressed, "so you got it?"

Clint sucked in a breath and forced a nod.

"Good," Coulson said, "then there's only one more thing you need to understand. I chose this. I chose what happened. I chose to take that bullet. And it's because I give a damn. And it's the kind of thing that friends do for each other. And I know what you're gonna say; that you don't have friends. But that isn't anything you get to decide on your own. That part of your life is over and I'm not going to toss you back to it or let you run back to it. End of story."

There was a long silence between them. Across the room, they could hear the voices of the others, still working out their plans. Clint didn't know if Coulson was even looking at him any more. In a lot of ways, he was afraid to open his eyes and check.

"So," he finally said, not sure until the last moment if he could speak steadily, "where do we go from here?"

"Right now?" Coulson said. "You get back over there with your team. They need you."

"I work better alone."

"No, you don't. So get over there and stop moping. After this is over, we're taking a break from training. We got some stuff to work out and I don't think my shoulder could take it anyway."

Finally, Clint found the wherewithal to look at Coulson again. He couldn't help the weak smirk that came to his face. "I'm not moping," he said.

Coulson's eyebrows went toward his hairline. "Pondering again?" Clint couldn't help but deepen his smirk for a moment before getting it back under control. "You're moping, stop it," Coulson pressed, "now get over there. That's an order."

Taking a steadying breath, Clint nodded and stood up again. He was just turning to join the others across the room when Coulson spoke again.

"Hey, you never answered _my_ question," he said, "you okay?"

Clint looked away again and considered for a moment. "No," he finally said, then he looked up at Coulson once more, "but I can get there."


	5. Chapter Four

Fixer's men were definitely professional thugs. This was no group of people who were inexperienced, by any means. But they had the weakness of being rather dim. Apparently, Fixer was himself the brains of the outfit. Clint wondered if he kept it that way on purpose or if he just couldn't find anyone with brain cells to rub together. Either way, it was something they could use.

Clint heard his breath echoing off the inside of his mask as he waited for the pair of thugs to be in the right place. His heart was racing and every nerve was on-end, a bitter taste in his mouth. He could do this. He _had_ to do this. He had no choice, if their plan was going to have a chance in hell of working.

"Trust your partner," he silently mouthed to himself, repeating it like a mantra, focusing on it to try and calm his hammering heart.

Two thugs, wearing masks against the knock out gas that was still filling the halls, rounded the corner at the opposite end of the hallway from Clint. He ducked back around his own corner before he was seen and counted to five before throwing some useless object he had picked up somewhere into the next corridor over.

The two thugs came to a stop at the noise. "You hear that?" one of them asked.

"Yeah," said the other, keeping his voice low, "go check it out. I'll watch for any of 'em circling back around."

"Why do I gotta go?" the first one whined.

"Cause I got the radio, dumbass," said the second, holding up the device.

The first thug gave a resigned growl and shook his head. Then, he crept around the corner to the next corridor over. Clint listened for several seconds until there was a rather satisfying sound of a body unceremoniously hitting the floor.

"Boggs?" the other thug called, turning his attention in the direction his partner had gone.

And that was Clint's cue. He darted out of his hiding place, making sure that he was making enough noise to catch the thug's attention, then started running.

"Hey!" the thug exclaimed, taking off after him.

Now was the tricky part. He needed to lead the guy around a bit, so he couldn't run full-tilt-boogie. But he also needed to make it look convincing. So he allowed a little bit of time for the thug to spot him before he would round a corner. He had to duck a few badly-aimed bullets in the process.

"Trust your partner," he chanted to himself as he ran, "trust your partner, trust your partner." Damn it! Why was this so futzing hard?! It was just Bobbi, for Christ's sake!

And then there was the sound of an impact against flesh several yards behind him. Clint skidded to a halt and looked back. The second thug, too, was deposited on the floor. Bobbi was standing over him, twirling one of her batons and setting it back in its holster on her belt. Then, she reached down and pulled off the thug's mask and grabbed the piece he had been using.

"Guy puts away the radio that he can use to tell everyone else our location," she said, shaking her head in disbelief, "in favor of a gun he obviously isn't very good with." She reached for the radio on the guy's belt and turned it off. "I've heard of stupid criminals before, but these guys are _dumb_."

"Lucky for us," Clint said, reaching into a pocket for the shoe-radio, "Hawkeye to Mother Hen. Objective one complete."

 _"Objective one complete... what?"_ Carter's voice responded.

"Uhm, ma'am," Clint added, clearing his throat a little. Bobbi gave a small smirk.

 _"Good,"_ Carter said, _"and we'll be having a talk about that code name. Begin objective two."_

"Copy that," Clint said, then hastened to add "ma'am."

 _"Ahhh... Hawkeye, Mockingbird,"_ Jarvis' voice tentatively followed, _"I'm afraid you'll want to find a different route from there. It appears that Fixer's men have found your ingress point."_

"Ah dammit," said Clint, "roger that, Poppycock."

 _"Can we talk about my name, too?"_ Jarvis said with a long-suffering sigh.

 _"Oh I think it rather suits you, actually,"_ Carter put in, sardonically.

 _"Traitor,"_ Jarvis whined back.

Bobbi led the way down the corridor toward the stairway there. They were on the 49th floor at the moment and there was an access point on the 51st that they figured they could get to. That floor was the beginning of some of the lab levels and was laid out quite differently from the other floors. It was a veritable maze of windowed hallways and hermetically sealed doors. At one point, they passed a room with blue lights with three people in it, apparently still awake by virtue of the hazmat suits they were wearing. When they caught sight of Clint and Bobbi and realized they weren't Fixer's people, they motioned for help through the window. Bobbi gave them a helpless shrug indicating their door. One of the scientists nodded in resigned understanding. Bobbi held a finger to her mouth before the two of them moved on.

As they rounded a corner to another windowed hallway of rooms, Clint spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. He dove for cover by the wall and pulled Bobbi down with him. Once they were sure they had not been seen, Bobbi poked her head up carefully, just enough to look through the windows, and spotted a pair of thugs making rounds. She ducked back down and motioned with her hands to indicate to Clint the direction they were going.

Their goal was a maintenance closet at the end of a hallway. They could see it from where they were, but the thugs were headed roughly in that direction. They would need to take the long way around. Keeping low, beneath the window ledges, they moved to keep the thugs on the opposite side of the circuit from where they were. Just as they rounded a corner, there was a gunshot and Clint heard a bullet whizz past his ear and hit the wall beyond. He whipped his head around to see another thug moving toward them with a gun in one hand and reaching for his radio with the other.

"Go!" Clint shouted to Bobbi and they were both in motion an instant later, abandoning stealth for speed. The first pair of thugs were in motion, too, heading back in their direction.

"I got two on the 51st floor!" the thug with the radio said into the device. "I need complete lockdown!" He fired off another couple of shots at Clint and Bobbi which they only barely managed to avoid.

By the time the doors of thick, bulletproof glass started to come down around them, Clint had gotten a little bit ahead of Bobbi. He could see their goal just ahead. There was a thump and a scramble behind him and he turned back to see that one of the thugs had caught up with Bobbi and they were engaged in a fight, hand-to-hand. Before Clint had a chance to do anything, the thug had been joined by the other and they had wrestled her to the ground.

"Go!" Bobbi shouted at Clint, grabbing the radio they had pilfered and sliding it across the floor toward him.

Clint scooped it up and started back to help her, but a barrier came down just in front of him, cutting him off from her just before he could get through.

"Bobbi!" he shouted at her, coming to a halt by slapping his hands against the bulletproof glass.

The three thugs had managed to overwhelm her and were wrestling her mask off. Clint's blood boiled as he watched her start to cough and lose her strength. He pounded on the glass uselessly as she looked back at him, her strength abandoning her as she sank to her knees under the combined weight of the thugs.

"Go!" she said again, her breath failing as she collapsed to all fours and then went down altogether.

Stunned, Clint took a couple uncertain steps away from the glass, his hands tingling with the pent up frustration of helplessness.

The thug with the radio came toward the glass a moment later, speaking on the radio. Clint's head was buzzing and he couldn't make out what the guy was saying. On reflex, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and set it to the string of his bow, drawing and pointing it at the thug as he continued backing up. His back hit a door and he realized that it was the maintenance closet that he and Bobbi had been heading for. Somehow, in the insanity, he had made it to their goal.

For an instant, he hesitated. If he waited for the door to open giving the thugs access to him, maybe he could get a shot off, disable them and get to Bobbi. But it was clear quickly that the doors were not going to be coming up. Other thugs were appearing from the other side, thoroughly boxing him in. He had no choice. There was no way he could take six or seven of the guys once the doors came up.

With a growl of rage, Clint let up on the pull of his bow and spun around to tear open the closet and disappear inside. As soon as he was in there, he grabbed the most solid looking mop and jammed it against the door. The access to the crawlspace was above, a panel in the closet ceiling. He clambered up a shelving unit and pushed the panel open, then pulled himself up into it. Sliding the panel back into place, he jammed an arrow head into it to jam it shut and began to crawl frantically away from it.

"This is Hawkeye," he said into the shoe-radio, his voice spewing panic, "Mockingbird is down, they've got her."

 _"Oh God!"_ Carter's voice responded. _"Did they hurt her, do you know?"_

"I dunno," Clint replied, barely keeping his breath in check, "they got her mask off and the gas got to her. That's all I saw."

_"What's your status?"_

"Heading to you," said Clint.

 _"The objective?"_ Carter asked.

Clint stopped for a moment in the crawlspace, trying to catch his breath, somehow not believing what she was asking. He wanted to shout, he wanted to rail. How could she be concerned with a stupid radio when they had Bobbi?

_"Hawkeye! The objective!"_

Clint clamped down on his desire to scream back at her, partially assisted by the fact that he still couldn't quite get his breath under control.

"Still secure," he ground out, still not keeping all of the spite out of his voice. He, forced himself back into motion, heading back toward them. Over the shoe-radio he heard a shuffle and then Coulson's voice came on.

 _"Hawkeye, this is Pelican,"_ he said, _"I know what's going through your head right now. But the best way to help Mockingbird now is to end this. Quickly. She has intel about our position and we have to assume Fixer knows that. But there's a window of time before she can recover from the knockout gas. They won't do anything to her until then. She's too valuable. Focus on the mission and keep your head clear and we can rescue her along with everyone else."_

Clint paused and took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. Everything Coulson was saying made sense. It didn't make him any less angry about it, but it made sense.

"Copy that," he said, continuing down the crawlspace. He hadn't made it far before Jarvis came on the line again.

 _"I recommend all haste, Hawkeye,"_ he said, _"they've already gotten into the closet. I don't have an angle inside, so I don't know if they've found your mouse hole."_

"I need to move faster than this," he said, "can you find me a clear route through the normal hallways onto the same floor as the home base?"

 _"Two floors up,"_ Jarvis replied, _"they've already swept that floor, so their presence there should be minimal."_

"Up?" Clint asked. "Don't I need to go down?"

 _"Well,"_ Jarvis said, sounding a little uncertain, _"this is going to be a little unconventional but... I'm afraid it's the best I have."_

"Keep it a surprise, huh?" Clint groused back. "I get the feeling I don't wanna know."

* * *

And, yes, it turned out he didn't.

In the dead end of a corridor on the 53rd floor, Clint stared stupidly at the closed elevator doors that he was confronted with.

"You're kidding me, right?" he said over the shoe-radio. "This is haze the trainee or something and you picked the worst possible time?"

 _"I'm afraid not,"_ Jarvis assured, _"this is the best I can do."_

Resignedly, Clint gave a sigh and approached the closed elevator doors. Power had been cut to them, so it was fairly easy to slip his fingers in between them and push them open, revealing a dark, stale-aired elevator shaft with a pair of steel ropes running up the middle.

"So you want me to slide down ten floors on a steel elevator cable," Clint said, his voice echoing into the chasm below, "you do know all I have for hand protection is archer's finger-tabs. On one hand. On only three fingers."

 _"So climb down instead,"_ Coulson said, _"hand-over-hand if you insist. Just get here."_

Knowing he would need both hands feet, Clint slipped the radio inside his mask along the fleshy part of his cheek.

"I'd just like you to know, I hate everything right now," he said, backing up and readying a running start. He leaped across the empty space and grabbed the cable. It was taught enough that rather than swing, he sort of bounced, the movement wrenching at his wrists. The palms of his hands stung a little as he grasped on and the steel cable pulled at his flesh a bit as he twisted a leg around the cable to stabilize himself.

"Okay, I got it," he said, "I'm coming down." Letting the cable twist around his leg, he started dropping down, hand over hand.

 _"Make it quick,"_ said Coulson, _"just like those trapeze you used to use."_

"It's just a little farther to fall, I think," Clint snapped back, "you'll forgive me for taking a second."

Suddenly, the cable lurched under him and began to move upward.

"Uh, I got a problem," he said, "someone's _using the elevator_!" He looked up and spotted the rapidly approaching top of the elevator shaft. Thinking quickly, he switched over to the other cable which was traveling downward, but quickly found that the elevator car below was rushing toward him. "And it's going up with no signs of stopping any time soon!"

 _"Dammit!"_ Carter swore over the radio. _"Jarvis?"_

 _"I think I can stop it,"_ the old man replied.

Clint's legs slammed into the top of the elevator car and he was once again riding up. "Now would be a good time, Poppycock! I got about thirty floors before I'm a grease stain!"

 _"Jarvis!"_ Carter exclaimed.

 _"Let me work!"_ he exclaimed back as Clint watched the space above him get shorter and shorter.

Twenty floors... fifteen...

"Any day now," said Clint.

Ten floors... five. Clint clamped his eyes closed and put his arms over his head in what was likely a feeble attempt to protect himself from the elevator pulley mechanism.

"Trust your team, trust your team, trust your team," he repeated, increasing volume and not caring who could hear him.

The elevator lurched to a stop between floors. There was a shower of sparks to either side as the safety brakes latched onto the side of the shaft.

 _"Hawkeye!"_ Carter's voice through the radio was the next thing that Clint was aware of. _"Hawkeye, respond!"_

Slowly, carefully, feeling his hands shaking, Clint opened first one eye and then the other to realize that he wasn't dead. He looked above him and found the elevator's pulley mechanism only about a foot away from his head.

"That..." he breathed out, "was cutting it close."

 _"I'm afraid I won't be able to do anything more from here,"_ Jarvis said, _"that seems to have given away my presence in the system. And security software is showing a trace on the line."_

 _"Unplug the computer!"_ Carter commanded.

 _"Done,"_ Jarvis said a moment later.

"They complete the trace on you?" Clint asked.

 _"I've no idea,"_ Jarvis replied, somewhat grimly.

There was silence over the radio for a while as everyone seemed to be catching their breath. Clint allowed himself to collapse back onto his butt.

"So, uh," Clint finally ventured, "kinda stuck in a box, here."

 _"There should be an emergency hatch in the ceiling of the elevator car,"_ said Coulson, _"you'll need to get out that way."_

"Did you forget the part where someone was riding this thing?"

 _"Nope,"_ Coulson replied, _"you're trusting your team. Now it's time to trust your training."_

"You mean my incomplete training?"

 _"Please,"_ said Coulson, _"you've been training with Mockingbird and putting her on the mat on a regular basis. These guys should be a cake walk."_

"Today sucks," Clint muttered as he began to search the top of the elevator for the hatch, "shoulda stayed in bed. But no! Some psycho has to hijack the Triskelion, threaten my Director, shoot my SO, and knock out my partner."

 _"Yours?"_ Coulson asked. _"So you're finally owning this place and the rest of us?"_

"Shut up," Clint groused back, resting a hand on the grip of the panel he was searching for. He crouched as near to it as he figured he could get and took some quick, calming breaths.

He tore open the hatch and jumped in without even looking. He didn't have the time if he wanted to keep surprise on his side. He fell down on top of one guy's shoulders, clamping his legs around the thug's neck and clawing at the edges of his face mask. He pulled that off the guy's head and then sent both of his fists into the base of the guy's skull. Then they both fell to the floor.

Clint rolled off the thug, dodging a fist from another as he did. There was a third thug coming at him and Clint kicked out, catching the guy in the knees with a satisfying crunching sound. The thug screamed and fell to the ground, bringing his neck into the range of Clint's ankles. These he wrapped around the guy's neck and twisted, sending his head into the side of the elevator as he dodged yet another assault from the last thug.

Clint regained his feet in a crouch, coiled like a spring. He launched himself at the third thug, driving both of his fists into the guy's solar plexus and pinning him to the wall, gasping. Over and over Clint pounded his fists into the guy's midsection until finally he slid down the wall, boneless.

He looked around, taking stock. Three unconscious bodies on the floor and no sign of any more coming his way.

"Okay," he said, catching his breath, "so it turns out I'm kind of awesome."

 _"Told you so,"_ said Coulson, _"there's a reset switch on the elevator's control panel. That will disengage the breaks. Take the elevator back down to this floor."_

"What just ride it?" Clint asked, pulling the remaining masks off the thugs. "Like a... day at the office?"

 _"Why not?"_ Coulson replied, _"You secured it, didn't you? Take a breather and ride. You've earned it."_

With a heavy, tired sigh, Clint did as ordered and heard the emergency brakes disengage with a clunk. The elevator drifted the rest of the way up the last floor of the shaft and then Clint pressed the button for the floor of the medical ward.

As the elevator started moving down again, Clint leaned back against the wall. His entire body ached. And not just the ache of getting shot at, crawling through tiny places, fighting guys, and nearly getting squashed on top of an elevator. No, he also felt the distinct deep joint ache that came along with fever. He realized he felt colder than he should after a run and a fight like that, even though his eyes felt like two lumps of blazing heat.

The meds were wearing off. And Doc Harris had said he could only safely give him one dose of the stuff in a twenty-four hour period. The flu bug was coming back and in a couple hours he'd be sick as a dog again.

The day just kept getting better and better.

* * *

Carter was pacing back and forth and Coulson couldn't help but watch. It had been a while since Clint had checked in with them over the radio. Coulson had to admit that he was feeling fidgety himself. But he tried to keep still, since every time he shifted, his shoulder had a hot spike of pain lance through it.

Given Clint's propensity for chatter when shit hit the fan, Coulson figured that no news was good news. Still, that didn't keep him from glancing at the crawlspace hatch every couple of minutes, hoping for some sign of his trainee.

Finally, three tired-sounding knocks came from the other side of the panel. Carter whipped around and made for it. Gideon and Harris joined her to help. When the panel came away, it revealed an exhausted-looking Clint, face pale and eyes bright. He was holding out the pilfered radio.

"This better be worth it," he said as Carter took it from him and then set it aside in favor of helping him out of the crawlspace. It was a testament to how he was doing that he didn't push away the help from the Director and Gideon. They deposited him on a nearby chair and Coulson noted that he was looking positively ghostly.

Gideon placed a hand to Clint's forehead. Clint made only a cursory protest, but didn't resist. "Yeah, fever's coming back, hun," she said.

"Think we better get some fluids in him," said Harris, reaching into a cabinet for a bag of saline and an IV.

"You'll have to make it a very big drink, Doctor," said Carter, looking a little pained to have to say it, "I'm afraid I need him mobile."

"Director," Coulson protested, "I don't think-"

"I'm sorry, Agent Coulson, but we've no other choice," she said, interrupting, "Harris and Gideon are trained to do no harm, Nick's got a broken leg, and you're still bleeding."

"And Bobbi?" Clint asked, blearily. "What about her?"

"We'll get her back when we retake the Triskelion," she said.

" _If_ we retake the Triskelion," Clint mumbled as Harris handed him a glass of water.

" _When_ ," Carter insisted, "I don't want to hear the word 'if' out of your mouth again until we've finished."

"Yes, ma'am," Clint said around a swallow of water.

"So what's the play here?" Fury asked. "We send the kid up to the 56th floor to take out Fixer all by himself? Seems pretty damn risky to me."

"Agreed," said Coulson, feeling a growing dread, "we've already pushed him past his limits. Sending him up there alone is basically suicide."

"I never said he was going alone," said Carter, walking back over to the table full of the supplies Bobbi and Coulson had recovered earlier. She holstered one gun at her waist and another was set into a shoulder holster.

"Now, wait just one damn minute," Fury protested, "Peggy, this is not a good idea."

"Save it, Nick," she replied, "I'm finished with sitting on the sidelines and watching my people get picked off."

"Director, I agree with-"

"And if I had wanted your opinion, Agent Coulson, I would have asked for it."

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, then. Carter looked from face to face, daring any of them to protest again. Coulson ran his good hand through his hair, feeling his heart sink. He looked over to Clint again, just finishing his water. Their eyes met and Coulson saw steel there in spite of the fever and the exhaustion.

"Look, I know this is far from ideal," Carter admitted, "it's a desperate day when the old and sick of SHIELD have to fight, but it's what we've come to. If any of you have any other idea, I'll listen. Believe me."

Coulson looked about the room and found that everyone else was suddenly busy studying the floor. Carter looked over to Clint.

"So, what do you say, Barton?" she asked. "Got it in you for one more mission with your Director today?"

Gideon was handing Clint another glass of water. He pushed it away and slowly got to his feet, leveling a determined gaze at Carter. It actually gave Coulson chills.

"Yes, ma'am," Clint said with finality that very nearly echoed off the walls.


	6. Chapter Five

Peggy couldn't help but marvel at the kid. Coulson had certainly been right about him and Fury had done well to accept the agent's evaluation. Here he was, not even in his twenties, training only seven months in, down with a horrible stomach flu, and he was about to save everyone in the Triskelion in spite of it all.

Clint Barton had that spark in him; the one she hadn't seen in almost fifty years. The last time she saw a spark of determination this bright, it burned in the heart of a scrawny young man from Brooklyn by the name of Steve Rogers and was so powerful it could only be quenched by the frozen seas of the arctic. No one had been able to make another super soldier since then. But now, Peggy wondered, if perhaps all they had had to do was wait.

As she accompanied him through the labyrinthine narrows of the crawlspace, she couldn't help but feel she was catching a glimpse, just a tiny peek, into a future that even she couldn't have imagined. If there were more out there like Clint Barton, or like Howard's frighteningly brilliant son Tony, the world was going to be unrecognizable in thirty years.

She would be in her nineties by then. And based on family history, she probably wouldn't even know her own children.

So Peggy Carter would do what she could in the here and now. She would light the flame of the fire that would forge great men.

Of course, first, they had to survive today.

The two of them had made it to the 53rd floor, the staging area that she had decided upon. The crawlspace opened into a larger section, just behind the AC maintenance there. She brought them to a halt and sat leaning against one of the walls as Clint emerged from the smaller space after her, stretching out a little in the larger space and then resting against a wall himself. He looked spent, but determined to continue.

"Holding up?" she asked him.

"Yeah," he breathed out with a nod, "nice place you got here."

"Oh, yes, a closet-sized secret box in the bowels of the Triskelion," she replied sardonically, "the very definition of homey."

Clint chuckled. "Naw, I'm serious," he said, "nice big pile of pillows over there, maybe a small TV in that corner. Cheer the place right up."

"You'll have a hard time getting reception," Peggy said, motioning to the walls and ceiling, "metal on all sides. No signals in or out."

"Even better," Clint said, "bring a boombox and a nice pile of tapes to listen to and just get away. Some Queen, Genesis, Prince maybe."

"What I wouldn't give for a good John Lennon recording right now," Peggy mused, "just imagine, yeah?"

Clint looked over at her, then, steel in his gaze still but fear also. "I get the feeling this is where you and I are supposed to part ways, ma'am," he said.

"Yes," Peggy said, "you know your objective."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good," Peggy said with a nod, "from here on, we both trust our partners. Without question. I know that isn't easy for you. But this won't work without that."

Clint nodded, his eyes closed.

"And one other thing," she said, "something you should know. If you continue with even half of the excellence I've seen today, your time with SHIELD is going to be a storied one; legendary even. And even that pales in comparison with what Coulson sees in you."

"Coulson's an idiot, if that's what he believes," Clint said, his gaze sliding off to the side.

"Phil Coulson is one of the smartest men I know," she replied, "if he believes it, then I believe it. And one day, everyone else will believe it, including you."

"I'm just a guy no one wanted."

"Good lord, you really are a tough nut to crack," Peggy said, regret coloring her words, "no, Clint. You're not. I'll tell you what you are. You're a survivor. And survivors have strength that no one else can see."

"Yeah?" Clint said with a scoff. "So how do you see it?"

"Because it takes one to know one. So from this day forward, no matter what happens, you are SHIELD. And that means you shield the world, along side all of the rest of us. Now, I want to hear it from you. Who are you?"

"Clint Barton."

"Who are you?"

"The Hawkeye."

"Who _are_ you?"

"I am SHIELD. And that means I shield the world."

"And never forget that," Peggy ordered, "not even for one moment. Now, enough chit-chat. We've an agency to save. There's a panel over in that corner that leads down into the air vents. You'll be able to get up to the 56th floor through them." She pulled her sleeve back over her wrist, exposing her watch. "Twenty minutes, on my mark." She waited until Clint was looking at his watch and then called it. "Get moving. You know what to do."

"Yes, ma'am," Clint said, moving over to the hatch and pulling his gas mask over his head. He paused before pulling it down over his face and looked back at her for a moment. "And, uh... Director," he said, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck, "I just... uhh... it's... it's an honor, ma'am."

Peggy couldn't help the faint smile that came to her face, then. "Stop it, you'll make an old woman blush," she said, "now get going."

Clint nodded and pulled his mask down. Then, he pulled open the hatch and disappeared into the air vents below, pulling it closed behind him.

"And God shield you," Peggy whispered after he was gone. She allowed herself another moment, before turning back the way they had come in and disappearing back into the crawlspaces herself.

* * *

The air vents echoed quite a lot more than the crawlspace did. It was a lot more clunky, a lot more metallic. His movement made a lot more noise here, but at least he had a more direct route to the 56th floor. Besides, he needed a different route than the one Bobbi had taken to retrieve Fury. They had to assume that they knew about that entry point by now.

Clint came to the junction of the air vents that he was looking for after taking far too long trying to move silently past Fixer's patrolling posse. He had to wait for a group of them to get far enough away, down the hallway before he could begin his climb up the vertical air shaft. He watched through a grate in the vent as they moved off, taking their damn sweet time about it, too.

Once he had decided they were far enough away, Clint turned his attention to the shaft. It was narrow enough for what he had planned. Ensuring that his bow and quiver were secure on his back, he planted his feet to either side of the grate and stood up into the shaft. It had been a while since he had used this trick. He and Buck had once experimented with it to work into their act at the carnival, but it just hadn't had the punch that the trapeze did, so they had abandoned the idea.

He rubbed the bottoms of his shoes, right at the ball, clearing any loose dust away. Then he rubbed his hands together until they felt a little warm. Bracing his hands on the sides of the shaft, he lifted one foot and caught it at the bottom of the wall. This gave him enough leverage to boost up using his hands. His other foot braced into the side of the shaft opposite his first. Once he was certain that wasn't going to move, he was able to move his hands up the wall.

Slowly, hand-by-hand, foot-by-foot, he moved upward in the shaft. It wasn't an easy thing to do in the first place. His muscles were already protesting. About half way up to the next floor, he felt his head swim a bit. He had to pause for a moment to allow it to clear.

God, he felt like shit!

Steeling himself to continue, he moved onward and upward. By the time he reached the 56th floor, he felt like he had been climbing forever. And he hadn't considered the dismount into the air vent on that level. With hands and legs bridged across the empty expanse below him he wondered for a moment how he was going to make it to the horizontal surface without falling.

With one more boost, he was able to land his left hand on the horizontal surface. But he couldn't get the leverage he needed to lift himself over to it with one arm and he couldn't let go with his other without falling.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours, trying to figure out the dilemma. The angles just didn't give him the leverage he needed to lift himself over. His arms were starting to shake and he knew he couldn't hold out like this much longer. Either he would misjudge his ability to get over there and fall or he would fall because his legs and arms gave out.

And then, in a moment of clarity that should not have been possible, he remembered the trapeze at the carnival and the first time he was training on them. He had gotten himself stuck upside down on one of the swings and couldn't get enough momentum going to swing back up. With a laugh, Jacques had told him that he could either stay up there all day or let himself fall into the net. It had been terrifying. But eventually he had had to do it. And after that, letting himself fall to get out of a situation was sometimes the easiest and safest thing to do.

He had to let himself fall. But there was no net to catch him this time.

"Trust your training," he said to himself.

Taking a deep breath, Clint shifted his right foot so that it was flatter against the side of the shaft, the better to get the push he needed. Then, making certain his left hand was well anchored on the landing. He took another breath and moved.

As he let his left foot fall, he pushed with his right, propelling himself across the shaft toward the landing. His right hand reached out to take a place beside his left on the landing. With a loud clang that reverberated into his chest and in his head, he slammed against the side of the shaft, dangling from the ledge. After that, he had to pull himself up, which wasn't fun, but he managed it.

Clint lay on his stomach for a long moment, letting his abused limbs rest. They felt like lead weights had been tied to them and his shoulders ached. His head spun a little bit and he had to wait until it stopped to even try to get back up to his hands and knees.

He looked at his watch. He only had seven more minutes to get into position.

"Get up," he said to himself. And then, after another moment of his body protesting the sentiment, he was finally able to push himself off the floor of the vent and begin crawling toward his destination.

* * *

In the end, Peggy decided to just take the stairs. Her knees weren't what they used to be and she needed to be able to move quickly if it was necessary. Crawling around in the crawlspaces simply wasn't doing her any good. She got herself to the 55th floor, hoping that it would still be fairly clear. Fixer had posted only cursory guards at the entries to the stairwells and the elevator after his men had searched the floor. The first one went down with her hand over his nose and mouth and a taser in his neck. The one at the opposite stairwell got a distraction and then a stunning blow to the back of his head with the butt of her gun. And the one at the elevator? Well, he was the last one, so the unlucky bastard just got a bullet.

The 55th floor was all hers. Now to dig in. And that was where the backpack full of gadgets she had brought along came in. Some of it was old Howling Commandos tech from back in the day, but most of it was some newer stuff that Coulson and Morse had managed to pilfer from R&D.

A couple of sonic stun emitters took care of the stairwells. She set them to go off if anyone opened the stairwell doors. The emitters themselves were hidden on the underside of the stairs and the concrete and steel stairwell would serve to intensify the sound, making the entire stairwell impassible without getting nauseous and dizzy.

The elevator got a grenade rigged up to it. The opening of the elevator doors would pull the pin and the time delay would allow anyone on the elevators to step out right into the shrapnel spread before it went off. She set other traps at various key locations on the floor, finally deciding on a small waiting area as her final stand, if she needed it. She had just finished pushing around the uncomfortable furniture that was there to make a barricade when her watch indicated twenty minutes was up.

Finally, she took a radio off of the belt of one of the downed thugs. Voices were chattering over it, reporting that various floors and areas had been cleared or that some of the unconscious SHIELD agents were starting to get over the knockout gas. It was a veritable cacophony of noise, for a system of tactical communications. Apparently, keeping the line clear was not something Fixer was all that worried about. She keyed to talk and then broke in on the chatter.

"Fixer, this is Director Carter."

The channel went utterly silent. Apparently, she had surprised Fixer's men well enough.

 _"Well, well, Director,"_ Fixer said into the radio silence, _"is this how you've been avoiding my searches? Eavesdropping is so unbecoming a lady._

"Searches? Is that what you call your men stumbling around my agency like blind children?"

 _"Did you call just to toss insults back and forth, or is there a point to this?"_ Fixer asked.

"We're at a stalemate and I've had enough," Peggy replied, "so either you can keep looking for me and I can keep evading you or you can come down here and threaten me face-to-face."

Fixer gave a chuckle. _"Nice try, Madam Director, but I'm not that stupid,"_ he said, _"and you've just given me something to go on. You said 'down here,' which means you're on a lower floor than I am. I can take my men off the upper floors to look for you."_

"Hmm," Peggy replied, "I suppose it was really too much to hope you would come out yourself. You'll just have to have your men retrieve me, I guess."

 _"I'm sorry, Director, I can't allow that,"_ Fury's voice suddenly came over the radio.

"Nick? What are you doing?"

 _"Saving your butt, Director,"_ Nick replied, _"I objected to this plan in the first place and it's not working out."_

"Agent Fury, you have your orders," Peggy snapped into the radio, "you will remain where you are and will not interfere."

 _"Oooohh, dissent in the ranks,"_ Fixer taunted, _"Agent Fury, you've already enjoyed my company once. But I could have my men break your other leg, too, if that's what you want."_

 _"Listen up, Fixer or whoever the hell you really are,"_ Fury said, _"you and your men will vacate the Triskelion and leave Roosevelt Island within the next half hour, or I will activate the destruct sequence for this tower."_

"Nick!"

 _"Sorry Peggy, we have no choice,"_ said Fury, _"we can't let these yahoos get a hold of our tech and research, you know that."_

 _"You really want me to believe you'll kill everyone in this building, just to protect a few secrets?"_ Fixer said, _"I'm having trouble buying that. There must be... what... a couple thousand people, all stuck in their offices or unconscious from your own knockout gas?"_

 _"Buddy, I swear by my shiny new crutches, I will push this button if you don't move along,"_ Fury said.

 _"Wait, you're serious!"_ Coulson had broken in on the conversation from Fury's end. _"Forget it! I'm not dying in some damned hospital bed!"_

 _"Hey! The hell, Coulson?!"_ Fury again. There was what sounded like a scuffle and the sound of the radio hitting the floor.

Peggy heard Fixer give what sounded like a bored sigh. _"So, they're in the medical wing, then,"_ he said, _"all units on floors sixteen through forty-six, go to floor thirty-two and find them. Director, your house seems to be crumbling. You're all that's left."_

"Maybe," Carter replied, "but you'll still have to send someone to get me."

* * *

Fury and Coulson stood in the middle of the room, looking down at the radio on the floor. The back had popped off of it and and the batteries had skittered somewhere into some removed corner in the room. The speaker cone was exposed and wires were peeking out from the rest of the plastics.

"You overdid it," Fury said, looking over at Coulson.

Coulson gave a shrug with his one good shoulder. His other arm was in a sling. "Had to make it believable, sir," he said.

"We were supposed to take it with us and keep listening in," Fury countered.

There was a long pause and Coulson looked over at Fury, eyebrows cocked and a bit of a sparkle in his eyes.

"What?" Fury asked, resigning himself to the inevitably snarky answer.

"You could just admit that you're worried about 'em, too," Coulson said, sardonically.

"She ran with the damned Howling Commandos, Coulson!"

"I'm just saying."

"You're saying your wunderkind might not come through," Fury countered.

"I am not," Coulson replied, sounding far more childish than the situation called for.

"Boys?" Gideon cut in on their debate. They both looked over. She and Harris were already in the process of climbing into the crawlspace. "You two are gonna move slow and we pretty much just told this psycho where to find us, so maybe we should..." She chucked a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the crawlspace.

Fury and Coulson looked at each other for a moment.

"Yeah, we should go." Coulson said.

"Let's get our butts movin'." Fury said at almost the same moment.

Coulson used his good shoulder to help Fury over to the entry to the crawlspace. Gideon and Harris helped him inside. Coulson was about to climb in after him when Fury gave him the hairy eyeball again.

"Well if you're not gonna take it with us, at least don't leave it in full view so they can know what room we were in," he said.

With a bit of a grimace, Coulson darted back over to the remains of the radio and kicked it under the bed. Then he went back over to the crawlspace and let Gideon help him inside with a purse of her lips, a shake of her head, and a roll of her eyes. The nurse was last into the crawlspace and pulled the panel back into place after her.

* * *

Clint watched the figure in the high-backed chair at the head console of the 56th floor operations room. He didn't have a good look at the guy, yet, since his back was turned and Clint was hindered by peering through the narrow slits of an air vent grate. But he had been able to make out the radio exchange between Fixer, Carter, and Fury, so he knew that the plan was in motion.

Fixer's men were now split into two groups. Half of them were heading to the medical ward to look for Coulson and the others. The other half were heading Carter's direction, hopefully to find themselves in the fight of their lives when they found her. It was Clint's job to keep Fixer from alerting either group to what was happening with the other and lift the lockdown so they could get reinforcements from the rest of the agents trapped in their offices.

There were four goons with Fixer in operations, all milling about as if they were bored. It was clear that Fixer didn't need them for monitoring or running the system at all, so Clint decided they were likely body guards or something. Hopefully, they would leave to go help their compatriots when they found Carter.

Clint hated waiting. If the goons didn't leave, he would have to make the call eventually to just go in and fight. He was not fond of that prospect. But he also knew that if he didn't get to Fixer while Carter was still holding out, then they would lose everything.

"C'mon, c'mon," he whispered, just barely above the faintest of breaths.

 _"Sir!"_ a voice came over Fixer's radio, _"we can't get to the 55th floor. Some kind of sonic stunner went off as soon as we opened the door at the stairwell."_

"55th floor?" Fixer said, shifting in his seat. "Carter's bold. That's closer than I'd like to have this happening."

 _"Sir!"_ came another voice on the radio. _"We're having the same problem in the north stairwell, too. Terrible noise in there. Rigsey just puked!"_

"Well played, Carter," said Fixer into the radio.

 _"Well, I certainly try,"_ the Director answered, blithely, _"if any of your men make it through those doors they'll have to do so one by one and I will shoot them."_

That part wasn't for Fixer, obviously. That was warning off the thugs on the 56th and 54th floors. Clint hoped it would help.

Fixer gave a growl and then waved a hand at the goons in the room. He didn't hear Fixer's voice echo on their radios, so he knew that the orders he was giving was for them alone.

"You four, go take the elevator. More than one of you can get through at a time there."

The four goons all made for the door to the operations room and Clint couldn't help the smirk that came to his face. Fixer had taken the bait and now it was time for Clint to do his part. As silently as he could, he picked an arrow out of his quiver, one of the ones with a flash-bang tip. He set it to the string and then positioned himself to kick out the grate.

It wasn't too long before there was a loud noise from the center of the tower and a deep rumble underneath him. Knowing that the four goons were now either dead or falling, he kicked out the grate at the same moment and launched himself out of the air vent. He drew as he fell and chose a spot on the floor just next to Fixer's chair and let fly just as Fixer was beginning to turn the chair around to look behind him. Before the flash-bang went off, Clint thought he saw a glint of silver from one of his hands and from his head.

Clint landed on the floor in a roll and pulled another arrow from his quiver, he came to a stop, bow drawn and waiting for the last of the smoke from the flash-bang to clear.

The smoke cleared before Fixer's vision did and Clint nearly fell backward when he got a clear view of the guy. Half of his face was covered in goggles and what looked to be some sort of a radio with a boom mic that extended toward his mouth.

That boom mic was what Clint chose as his next target and he let his arrow fly, neatly shearing it from the bizarre techno mask.

He was still taking in Fixer's appearance and noticed for the first time a pack mounted on his chest. Cords sprouted from it, leading to some mechanical gauntlets on his arms

"What the hell?" he breathed out.

And that was all the time he had before Fixer was pointing an arm at him. There was a red laser emanating from it and Clint decided not to wait to find out what it was for. He was in motion immediately, dashing for cover behind one of the consoles. There was a flash and a pop from the floor where he had been only a moment ago.

So, avoiding that, then.

"She must be desperate, if she's sending a boy to do a man's job," Fixer said as Clint continued moving behind the row of consoles. "Shoulda shot me in the head when you had the chance! What's the matter, kid? You miss? Or are you just a coward?"

Fixer was fishing, trying to get a rise out of him. Clint knew better than to take the bait. Responding would have given away his position. He continued to move, picking another row of consoles to move behind, hoping to throw him off so he could take another shot. He only barely made it there before Fixer's weapon went off, just behind his feet as he dove for cover.

"Don't bother trying to hide, kid," Fixer said, "I've got infrared. I can see exactly where you are back there."

Okay, well, so much for that.

"Yeah?" Clint said, pulling out another arrow and setting it. "Then how come you still can't hit me?"

Clint sprang from that console and behind the next, letting a standard arrow fly just past Fixer's mechanical arm. He took note of the direction that he flinched on reflex. Another blast from Fixer hit the wall, going right through the air where he had been a moment ago.

"Looks like I'm not the only one," Fixer shouted back.

Clint pulled another arrow and readied it. "Whatever, man!" he bellowed. "I've got a bow an' arrow. What's your excuse? I mean, you've got laser guidance on that thing!"

Almost before he had finished speaking, he ducked between consoles again, letting another arrow fly. He compensated for Fixer's reflexive movements and the arrow landed in the middle of the blaster mechanism. Sparks flew and there was a loud pop from it. Smoke curled into the air and the smell of ozone permeated the room.

Clint was still moving as Fixer tried to stop the sparks from flying. He launched himself over the console and leaped at Fixer, kicking his feet out to land hard against Fixer's chest, sending him reeling backward. Clint landed on the floor hands first and spring into a flip to his feet.

Fixer recovered, looking barely worse for wear for the punishment he had just taken. His blaster arm was disabled, now no more than a very complicated piece of armor. Fixer gave a snarl, then pulled on a switch of some kind on his chest piece. His other arm came to life with a crackle and Clint spotted the spark of a taser on the back of Fixer's hand. He charged toward Clint and Clint backed off, trying to gain space. He pulled out another arrow and set it to the string, but Fixer was inside his bow before he could loose. The arrow sailed harmlessly into the wall beyond.

Clint's side exploded with an impact and then he found his limbs were no longer obeying him. His bow went skittering off somewhere and his vision went red for a moment as he found himself crumpling to the ground, landing on all fours. The jolt was enough to send him reeling to the side and a few of his arrows fell out of his quiver.

He had barely begun to pick himself off the floor when he felt another jolt from the Fixer's taser, this time in his back. He was sprawling again, face down on the floor. Fixer was on him in a moment, locking his arm's around Clint's neck.

"I'll admit, you can take a hit," Fixer said in his ear as Clint struggled for breath and to try to free himself from the grip. But he couldn't get the leverage he needed, pinned to the floor as he was. Panic beginning to set in, Clint flailed his arms about the floor, desperately searching for purchase. His fingers curled around one of his loose arrows.

With grey spots beginning to dance at the edges of his vision, Clint grasped the arrow in a fist and struck out backward, over his shoulder as hard as he could manage. It landed in Fixer's chest piece, just near his left shoulder. Fixer's grip loosened and then fell away as the guy gave a howl and sparks jumped from the impact. He stumbled backward and landed on the floor. There was a long moment of silence before Clint once again began to get up, slowly and tiredly, breathing hard.

Clint looked over at Fixer and found him sprawled on his back, un-moving and unconscious, smoke drifting from the new arrow hole in his chest piece.

"Yeah," Clint said to him as he crouched down next to him and pulled the taser mechanism off his arm, "and I can hit back, too." He dropped the gauntlet on the ground and stomped down on it, as hard as he could, breaking it into pieces. He checked Fixer for a pulse and found one, but it seemed he would be out for a while.

Retrieving his bow, Clint wandered over to the main console that Fixer had been occupying when he broke into the room. He keyed in the code to lift the lockdown on the Triskelion that Carter had had him commit to memory, then located the switch for the announcement system.

"Attention all SHEILD agents," he said, doing his level best to keep the exhaustion from his voice, "the lockdown is lifting. Hostiles have invaded the Triskelion and are armed and dangerous. By order of Director Carter, any able bodied agents are to arm and neutralize the intruders."

Tiredly, Clint shut off the announcement system and turned around to lean against the console. He was exhausted and felt like death warmed over. No, scratch that. Like death had had frostbite and was now merely a mite chilly by Wisconsin standards.

Suddenly, hands grasped his ankles and pulled them out from underneath him. Clint reeled backward, his head bouncing off the console before he found himself sprawling on the ground. He looked toward his feet and found Fixer, clawing at his legs with murder in his eyes.

"I'm not done with you yet, kid!" Fixer howled with rage.

"I am not a kid!" Clint shouted back, punctuating his words by kicking out with his legs as hard as he could. He managed to dislodge Fixer's hands and roll away. But as Fixer was getting up off the ground, Clint knew he didn't have another fight left in him.

Clint grabbed an arrow from the floor and let it fly as he scrambled backward across the linoleum. It sailed true and landed in the main console, darkening it with a crackle. No more lockdowns today, damnit. Then Clint turned and got to his feet, already sprinting for the door that had opened when the lockdown lifted. With a roar, Fixer began to chase after him.

None of the agents on the 56th floor were up and moving yet. He had hoped for backup, but at least the halls were still clear. Knowing that trying to go down the stairwells would only knock him out, thanks to Carter's sonic stunners, he instead made for the elevator shaft.

The doors had blown outward and the space below was twisted and charred. The steel cables that had once held the elevator itself were dangling loose, frayed at their ends. Hearing the thud of Fixer's footsteps, Clint did the only thing he could do. Pulling another arrow from his quiver, he jumped into the open air, hardly believing what he was about to try to do.

As he began to fall, he twisted in the air and set the arrow to the string of his bow. He had no idea how far he had fallen by then and opted for immediate action. He let fly the arrow, a cable spiraling out after it. What it landed on Clint wasn't entirely sure. It had passed by so fast, you see. He knew only that it was something that was protruding from the side of the shaft. Clint griped his bow in both hands and with a jolt, the cable went taught, sending him swinging to the side of the shaft with the doors at each floor. Bracing himself for the impact, he hit the side of the shaft hard, between levels. The bottom of the shaft was only about two floors down.

He hung there for a second, then kicked at the second story door with his feet. It took a few good hits, but the doors finally folded outward into the mezzanine in the lobby. Pushing off with his feet, Clint swung out and aimed for the opening. With a trigger hidden on the side of his bow, he cut the cable and sailed out of the elevator shaft to land in a clumsy roll on the floor.

Holy futz, he was still alive! He knew that because there was no way in hell being dead would have hurt this much.

"Ow," he moaned out, slowly rolling over to push himself up again. He was very nearly to his feet when he heard what sounded like the letting out of another cable from the elevator shaft.

"You gotta be kidding me," Clint muttered. He forced himself back into motion again just as Fixer came into view and landed on the second story floor.

Clint sprinted, as fast as he could manage, for the staircase that led to the first floor. Fixer was hot on his heels, apparently having obtained a conventional gun from somewhere. The glass fences of the mezzanine shattered as bullets flew through them and Clint heard a couple whizz past his ear, way too close for comfort. he vaulted over the railing at the last couple of stairs and took refuge under the mezzanine, ducking behind a pillar. He was just beginning to wonder if he should risk the unprotected line to the main doors when another voice echoed across the lobby.

"Fixer! Stop, don't move, and drop the weapon!"

Everything ceased. Clint heard a clatter of a gun hitting the floor and risked a peek around the pillar and saw Fixer, standing in the lobby, hands in the air. beyond him was a SHIELD agent, a woman, dark hair and lithe figure, pointing a gun directly at Fixer's head. Other agents were emerging from other entries, and ringing the lobby, guns also drawn.

Fixer had finally given up. Clint leaned heavily against the pillar, still trying to catch his breath, feeling his head swimming a little. At this point, the pillar was about the only thing holding him upright.

"On your knees!" the woman ordered and Fixer did so, grinding his teeth together and leveling a venomous stare at Clint as he did. Several of the other agents moved in and proceeded to divest him of anything that looked remotely dangerous, shoving him to the ground and cuffing him, none-too-gently.

As the other agents saw to Fixer, the woman walked over toward Clint, holstering her gun in a thigh holster.

"Jesus, you look like hell," she said to him, "Barton, isn't it? That recruit who's been breaking all the records on the obstacle course?"

Clint finally got his breath under control. "Yeah," he answered tiredly.

The woman nodded. "Not bad at all," she said, extending a hand, "Agent Hill, level four."

Somewhat bewildered, Clint took Hill's hand.

"Good work on this," she said, then turned back to deal with Fixer. The other agents were hoisting him back to his feet.

There was a twisted grin on his face and he was laughing. "This isn't over!" he shouted at Clint. "You're friend on the outside?" He laughed again. "Tracked him! Eye for an eye, time!" He only laughed harder as Clint's eyes widened with realization.

"Jarvis!" he breathed out.

Somehow, a new reserve of energy shot through Clint. Before he realized what he was doing, he was sprinting for the main door, to the pool of motorcycles that SHIELD kept waiting on the bridge over the Potomac. He chose one and was off in a flash, dimly hearing Hill's voice fading behind him, telling him to wait.

Like hell Clint was going to wait. Jarvis, still at Carter's apartment in Georgetown, had been exposed; tracked back there because he had intervened in order to keep an elevator from crushing him. In short, Clint owed the guy and he was damned if he was going to let Fixer send some thug to take him out after that.

Clint had no idea what time it was, but the sun was starting to go down in the west behind him as he rode. The bridge let him off the island on Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway. He wove in and out of traffic, ducking between cars and trucks who honked angrily, paying them no heed. As soon as he came to a crosswalk, he darted off the street and took to the Rock Creek Park trails.

"Out of the way!" he shouted as pedestrians and bicyclists who gave cries of alarm and darted off the path.

The path looped around, turning so that it looped under the Whitehurst Freeway bridge, eventually dumping him out on 30th street. He leaned into the turn and headed north. He turned again on to M and wove in and out of traffic a couple of blocks before he hit 31st, then headed north again.

Somehow, the location of Carter's apartment had stuck in Clint's brain. He brought the bike skidding to a halt at the intersection of 31st and O. it was easy to spot the particular door, seeing as it was smashed in. Clint pulled an arrow and set it, sprinting for the door with as much speed as he could muster. Rounding a corner, he burst into the first floor sitting room and took in the scene in an instant.

Jarvis was on his knees on the floor, his hands bound tightly with rope behind him. There was one of Fixer's thugs standing behind him, pointing a gun at Jarvis' head. As soon as Clint came to the entryway, the thug's eyes snapped up to look at him.

Clint had an arrow notched and pointed at the thug in the blink of an eye. In the same instant, the thug grabbed on to Jarvis and pulled him close to him so that the old man's shoulder was pressed to his chest. The thug pointed the gun right into Jarvis' forehead. The three of them stared between each other for a long, silent moment.

"You think you got it in you, kid?" the thug snarled.

"I'm not a kid," Clint ground out.

"Naw, you're Robin Hood, I suppose," the thug shot back, "think that arrow is faster than my finger? Huh? Wanna risk the old codger's life? Put it down."

Clint ground his teeth and his finger twitched on his bow string. Trembling, slowly, and almost unwillingly, he eased off the tension and lowered his bow, pointing the still notched arrow at the floor. But his hands were unwilling to let them go.

"I said put it down!" the thug screamed, shifting his gun to point somewhere in Clint's general direction.

And before he knew it, Clint's hands and arms were in motion again, drawing back on the bow and aiming for only an instant before he released the arrow and let fly. In the time it took the arrow to travel, the thug had pointed the barrel of his gun back at Jarvis again.

But then, nothing happened. The thug seemed to be taking stock of himself and looked surprised that there wasn't an arrow sticking out of him somewhere. He gave a relieved chuckle and a menacing grin.

"You shouldn't have missed, kid," said the thug.

"I didn't miss," Clint replied, desperate to keep the shake out of his voice.

The thug had a half a second to look puzzled before the rope around Jarvis' hands fell away and the old man was in motion. He jabbed one knee into the thug's legs and reached up, pulling on the arm that was still holding the gun. Before the thug could react to this, he was sailing through the air, flying over Jarvis' back and crashing into a glass table, shattering it.

It only took the thug a moment to recover. He launched himself off the ground, grabbing for the old man's legs. Jarvis went tumbling and a moment later, the thug was moving to point his gun at the old man again. Clint, too, was moving before he really registered the murderous intent in the thug's eyes. There wasn't going to be a standoff, this time.

The arrow jumped from Clint's bow only an instant later. Another moment and it was lodged in the thug's forehead. The string of Clint's bow still hummed with the action and his hand felt like it resonated with it. The thug went slack but seemed to hang in the air for a long moment before finally collapsing to the ground in an unceremonious and un-moving heap.

Clint had trouble drawing breath and felt frozen in place. He wasn't even aware that Jarvis had picked himself off the floor and was now standing at his shoulder. Jarvis' hand came to rest on Clint's bow arm, gently pushing it down until the tension left the teen's shoulders.

"This was your first?" Jarvis asked, voice soft.

Clint could only nod, swallowing hard, still looking at the fletching of his arrow sprouting from the thug's head.

"Look at me," Jarvis said, pushing on one of Clint's shoulders and turning him away from the sight, "and repeat this. 'He was a terrorist. My action was righteous.'"

"He was a terrorist," Clint repeated, haltingly, "my action was righteous."

"Good," said Jarvis, "now listen. You are going to have that man's face burned into your memory for the rest of your life. When you picture it, repeat that until you believe it. Understood?"

Clint nodded again.

"Now, breathe."

As if spasming, Clint drew a deep breath and let it out again, shaking. He gasped several times as if catching his breath. Jarvis meanwhile, reached over to the computer desk to grab the shoe-radio-thingy and activated it.

"Miss Carter?" he said into it.

 _"Yes! Jarvis! Are you all right?"_ the director's voice came back through it.

"Nothing some paracetamol won't help," Jarvis replied, "but you might want to come 'round for your archer."

 _"Is he all right?"_ Coulson's voice came over the radio next.

"He is unharmed," Jarvis replied, "but he seems rather spent and... he's had his first."

 _"Understood,"_ Coulson answered, sounding solemn, _"look after him until I can get there, will ya?"_

"Of course."

Clint's head began to spin a little and his legs were shaking, turning into rubber. His knees gave out and he would have landed on the floor if Jarvis' strong grip hadn't appeared at his elbow a moment later. Everything was finally catching up to him, slamming into him with a vengeance.

"Good heavens, young man, you're swaying on your feet," said Jarvis, "let's go outside and get some air, shall we?"

Owlishly, Clint looked back over to Jarvis and only really saw the old man for the first time. A full head of hair, gone stark white, his eyes kind yet showing a depth that Clint wasn't certain he could comprehend. As the old man led him out to the front stoop, he marveled a little at how so skinny a frame could possibly have such a firm grip.

He found himself deposited on the top stair of the front stoop and let his awareness finally drift off a little. Jarvis was saying something, but he didn't think it was all that important. He was shivering, even though he knew it was almost 90 degrees out, but his body didn't seem to care. Eventually, he realized that a blanket had been draped over his shoulders and he pulled it in tight, still shivering.

Finally, it was over.

* * *

Carter had actually gotten there before Coulson. He probably shouldn't have been surprised. It was her house and someone had almost killed her best friend in it. Besides, Coulson had stopped off at the archives to do a little digging, once he had gotten a look at Fixer.

With a file folder in hand, Coulson got out of the passenger seat of the car that had driven him to 31st and O. He felt a twinge in his shoulder as it shifted and he had to pause for a moment to recover from it before he continued on.

Carter was speaking to one of the DC cops who was making notes in a notepad as he listened to the answers to his questions. Coulson spotted one exchange between the two as he reached the perimeter and flashed his SHIELD badge to be let through. Carter gave the cop a wry grimace, as if to say that he should know better by this point. Cowed, the cop gave an uncomfortable nod, flipping his note pad closed and then walking away.

Carter spotted Coulson and waved him over. He handed her the file as he approached.

"Is this the one responsible for today's festivities?" she asked, opening it.

"That's him," Coulson replied, "Paul Norbert Ebersol. Brilliant electrical engineer, let go from Pym Tech five years ago."

"When Hank was cleaning house after Janet," she said with a nod, "shutting down the R&D department in order to start from scratch."

Coulson gave a nod. "Only he didn't accept his severance package so gracefully," he said, "Pym and his family received a number of threats from Ebersol over it. Then he just disappeared off the grid, until today. We suspect he fell into the black market weapons business."

"Any indication of what he was after?"

"No, not so far," Coulson replied, "Hill's working him right now, but so far, he hasn't said a word. And none of his men know what he was after, either. Guess he wanted to keep that information compartmentalized."

"All right, thanks for this," Carter said, snapping the folder closed, "take some time, get some rest. Both you and Barton." Relieved to finally be given leave to go over to the huddled figure wrapped in a quilt that was sitting on the stoop. As if in afterthought, Carter halted him. "And Coulson... he was exemplary today. You should be proud."

Coulson gave a lop-sided smile and a nod. "I am, Director," he said. She nodded back to him and tilted her head Clint's direction.

Coulson left Carter and headed over toward Clint. Jarvis was hovering nearby and saw Coulson approach. With a pat on Clint's shoulder, the old man moved off, giving them space. Coulson gave a nod of thanks and sat down on the stoop next to the archer, feeling his shoulder ache as he sat. He looked over at Clint and studied him for a long, silent moment.

Clint was a mess. He looked paler than he had at any point during the day. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were fixed on a point somewhere beyond a thousand miles away. He was shivering under the blanket he clutched closely and the backs of his hands - the only part of Clint's arms that Coulson could see - had scratches, scrapes, and cuts all over them.

Eventually, Clint slowly turned to look at Coulson, eyes resting on him, bright with fever.

"I puked in the Director's rose bush," he said, sounding simply miserable.

Coulson bobbed his head and gave a hum. "Well, you fought like hell to save her agency and then topped off the day by saving her best friend," he said, "so, I kinda doubt she cares."

"I feel like shit," Clint said, as if it was not connected in any way to what Coulson had just said.

"Well," Coulson said, resting his free hand against Clint's forehead, "that's probably the fever. Back with a vengeance."

Clint perked up a bit with worry, as if remembering something important. "Your shoulder!"

"I've had worse," Coulson replied, waving it off, "it'll be fine."

"Oh," Clint said, absently, looking away again.

"Need to talk about it?" Coulson asked after a long moment of silence.

"I dunno," Clint said, "I just... let it go and... and then it was in the guy's head."

"I'm sorry," Coulson said, "that happened too soon. I didn't get you ready for that."

"He was a terrorist," Clint said, almost robotic in tone, "my action was justified."

Coulson raised a surprised eyebrow. "Good advice," he said, "where'd you hear that?"

"Jarvis said it," Clint replied, "still working on listening to it."

Coulson gave a knowing nod. "C'mon, let's get back," he said, "I promised Harris and Gideon that I'd get you back to medical within the hour. The Director has this covered." He reached a hand out and waited for Clint to grasp on to it, then he pulled him to his feet.

"Yeah," Clint said, almost absently, as he wobbled a little. Coulson put his good arm over Clint's shoulders and guided him back to the car that had brought him there. It was mere minutes before Clint's head rested against the window and he closed his eyes.

* * *

Fury hobbled back into the medical ward, his crutches clacking under his weight and very nearly echoing in the silence that was the night watches. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to return to his quarters in the dormitory and pass the hell out. His leg hurt, his head hurt, every damned thing hurt. But he had one more thing to see to.

Fury paused in the doorway of the room the nurse on the night watch had directed him to. A dim light illuminated a corner next to a large, comfortable chair, just to the side of the room's single bed. In the light, he could make out the sleeping form of the young archer, curled up on his side and heavy blanket pulled up over his head as much as possible. More clearly, he could see Phil sitting in the chair, one arm still bound up in his sling, the other resting atop an open file folder in his lap. His head was lolled to one side and his legs stretched out in front of him. And from the slow rhythm of his breathing, Fury could tell he was asleep as well.

Fury rolled his eyes - well, his eye - and sighed. He really didn't want to wake Phil up. After all, the guy had been through the ringer himself, getting shot. For a moment, Fury thought about just sitting down in the uncomfortable plastic chair nearby and waiting for him to wake up. But he had his own doctor's orders and they didn't include sitting next to his former trainee and a sick eighteen-year-old all night. And so, reluctantly, he hobbled over to Phil and nudged his leg with one of his crutches.

Phil snapped awake, the file in his lap dumping on the floor. He grimaced in pain and held the elbow of his injured arm in his other hand.

"Sorry," Fury said, keeping his voice low, "couldn't reach."

"What time is it?" Phil asked blearily.

"Half past we-should-both-have-our-asses-in-bed," Fury replied, pulling the plastic chair over and lighting in it with a sigh. "How's your boy?"

"Fever went up a little," Phil said, "hit 102 about an hour ago. And... not a boy any more."

"Heard," Fury said, "so like I said; how is he?"

"Processing," Phil said with a sigh, leaning back in his chair again, "and he will be for a while. He wasn't ready for that. But I think he'll pull through."

"You'll pull him through," Fury corrected.

Phil gave him a nod in response, his eyes sliding away from Fury to rest on the figure curled up on the bed.

"News on Morse," Fury went on, "she's got a few bumps and bruises, but isn't much worse for wear. As soon as the last of Ebersol's men surrendered, they told us where they were holding her. She wanted to check on you two, but I told her Barton needed the rest. Sent her to bed with the promise that she could see him in the morning."

"That's good," Phil replied, "I'm sure Barton will want to know when he wakes up. And I know Blake wouldn't thank me for letting her stay in here all night."

" _You_ shouldn't be stayin' here all night," Fury countered, "you got shot, in case you forgot."

"Don't think I'd be able to sleep back in my bunk," Coulson said with a shake of his head, "and if he wakes up alone, I'm not sure it'll end well. Fever's got his head fogged up."

"Yeah, well, we're long past the point where I need to be your nanny," Fury said, "you can make your own damn decisions. But I'm not intercepting the doctors when they get pissed at ya."

"Yes, sir," Phil said with a soft chuckle.

"The Director has put all four of us on leave," Fury said, "Morse and me on one week, you and Barton on at least two. After that, I leave it to Barton's SO to decide when to pick up training in earnest again."

"Thank you, sir," said Phil with a nod.

"Well, you two caught the brunt of all this," said Fury, "I imagine you got some stuff to work through."

"I think we may have already started," Phil said thoughtfully, "I saw a whole new Clint Barton today. Big step for him."

"I saw a whole new _you_ today," said Fury, pulling himself up off the chair and reaching for his crutches, "it's a good foundation. Build on that. I'm goin' ta bed." He turned and hobbled toward the door.

"G'night, sir," Phil said.

* * *

Things at Carter's Georgetown apartment settled down just about the same time to sun was coming up. But she was still absolutely wired. She had read through the file that Coulson had brought about ten times, trying to find some motive for Ebersol's attack. But there was nothing. He had been completely silent for almost five years. He only even had a SHIELD file because of the threats he had sent to Hank Pym.

She was also looking through the files of the people she had been tossed together with the day before; Coulson, Barton, Morse, Harris, and Gideon. She had been letting Nick take the reins on personnel more and as a result she had only had a cursory look at the files for Barton and Morse. Gideon and Harris she hadn't really thought about since they were brought on. And Coulson... well, there was something different about how he was, since coming back from Texas and bringing Barton with him. Something had shifted in the agent and he seemed to be carrying a weight that he hadn't before. But he was also taking to it without any sort of hesitation or difficulty. She knew Nick would keep him close in the coming years, and that thought brought her comfort.

Sitting at the table in her dining area, she had just finished adding one last note to Coulson's file when a hand bearing a cup of tea appeared on the table before her. She looked up and found Jarvis was the one bringing it, another cup of his own in his other hand.

"I thought you might need this," he said.

"Oh, thank you, Jarvis," she replied reaching for it, "I could use a bit of a boost."

"Actually, it's chamomile," he replied, sitting in the chair across from her, "you are completely knackered and need to get some rest. I figured this might calm you down a bit."

"Calm me down, or you?" she asked him wryly, taking a sip from the cup and leaning back in her chair.

"Take your pick, I suppose," Jarvis replied arching an eyebrow, "quite the excitement today, eh?"

"Yes, quite," she said, "and by the way, thank you for your help. I hope Ana isn't too cross with me for stealing you away and getting you into danger again."

"Well, it was far from the worst danger I've been in with you," he countered, "though I was worried it might be the end for a moment, there, until that young man came swooping in like an avenging angel. Best marksman I've ever seen. And charged right in like an idiot. Reminded me a little bit of Mister Dugan, back in the day, actually."

Carter gave a sniff of a laugh and took another drink of her tea. "We certainly could have used the good ol' Howling Commandos today," she said.

"An elite team of agents, each with special skills, the best of the best," Jarvis mused, "perhaps it's time SHIELD put together something like that again."

"Perhaps," said Carter, "but I'll leave that for Nick to decide on. He'll know his own people better than I will, when that time comes." She gave a sigh, her eyes moving to the nearby window and gazing off into the distance. "I had recruited Doctor Harris myself, you know. And I hadn't remembered him at all."

"Well, you _have_ recruited hundreds over the years," Jarvis pointed out.

"Yes, and I used to remember all of them," Carter responded with a shake of her head, "It's started. My memory's beginning to go." She set her tea cup down on the table again and put her hand to her chin in thought. "It frightens me, Edwin. Isn't that silly? Years of dodging bullets, uncovering conspiracies, and defeating otherworldly entities, and _this_ is what frightens me."

Jarvis' hand gently covered hers, on the table top, after a long moment of contemplative silence. "Peggy, you've every right to be," he said, "but you know that it won't change who you are or what you've built. You brought down Hydra. And you've turned the SSR into something far greater. And you still have time to leave it in very capable hands."

"I suppose you're right," Carter said, placing her other hand over Jarvis', "and if today is any indication, the hands I'll be leaving it in are far more than simply capable. It's time for the next generation to step up and for us to step back. The world is in their hands, now."

"Indeed," said Jarvis, getting to his feet, "as is the way of things. I should be going home. Even though I called Ana and told her I'm fine, she still worries. I'm sure she's been up most of the night pacing away just as I have."

"By all means, go home to your wife," said Carter with a smile, "and give Ana my love, will you."

"Of course. Good morning, Miss Carter."

"And you as well, Mister Jarvis."

As Jarvis exited the dining area and left the apartment through the front door, Peggy turned her attention back to her files again. She was about to close Coulson's when she paused. Perhaps it was right and proper for her to leave assembling a new, crack team to Fury. But that didn't mean that she couldn't advise. Thoughtfully she opened Barton's file again and skimmed it over. Yes, this was the right advice.

Carter reached for her stack of post-its and wrote on the top two.

"New Howling Commandos?" it read in her scrawling cursive. But as she put one each in both Barton and Coulson's files, something didn't seem quite right to her.

What had Jarvis called Barton? An avenging angel, wasn't it?

Carter took her pen and crossed out the words on each of the post-its and replaced them with something else, a single word.

"Avenger?"


	7. Epilogue

_September 4th, 1989_

_SHIELD Base Triskelion, Washington DC_

It was a couple weeks later before Coulson had decided that he was up to tinkering with Lola again. It was a Monday evening, the garage deserted except for the two of them. Lola's hood was open from some previous work on the engine block, but presently, Coulson was on his back on the underside of the car, his legs sticking out the side as he tinkered on something. Clint was nearby, leaning against the driver's side back door, steel brush in hand, scrubbing away at a... well, he actually wasn't sure what it was. Coulson had just told him to clean the grime off of it.

"Hey, can you hand me that canister I left out near the wheel?" Coulson called from the underside of the car.

"Yeah," Clint said, reaching for the canister in question and looking at it, "what is this, nitro? Isn't that kinda illegal?"

"Not kinda," said Coulson, reaching his hand out. Clint put the canister into it.

"It is illegal, but only for civilian vehicles."

"Isn't Lola a civilian vehicle?" Clint asked, leaning against the side of the car again.

"Nope, she's SHIELD," Coulson replied.

"News to me," Clint countered, "when'd that happen?"

"When I decided to put nitro in," Coulson said.

Clint scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You realize that logic is circular, right?"

"Not circular exactly," said Coulson, "it's maybe a little dented at the top. I just... _really_ want nitro."

Things between them were still a little rough at times, but they had improved somewhat. The two of them had a bit of a better understanding of each other since Fixer's attack. They hadn't started back in on training just yet, though Clint was noticeably more trusting of Coulson and Coulson was more understanding of when Clint needed space. There were still rough spots, of course. Whenever Coulson's shoulder gave him trouble, Clint's stomach would tie up in knots again and he would look for ways to escape interacting with Coulson. It was still difficult for them to talk about everything that had happened. Clint kind of shut down whenever Coulson tried. But he reminded himself that Coulson was showing concern and not criticism, sometimes having to repeat it to himself several times

Oddly enough, Clint also felt sort of like he fit in at the place a little better, now. He wasn't sure if it was because word had gotten around that he had helped Carter take out Fixer, but it seemed like people didn't look at him all judgey any more. And also, he thought he saw a bit more of the weight that he thought he was the only one feeling in the eyes of many of the other agents. It was a little bit like he had been initiated into some sort of a mystery.

Or maybe it was just that he was blooded, now.

"He was a terrorist, my action was justified," Clint mumbled to himself at the thought of it. The man's face flashed in his memory again, Clint's arrow still lodged in his head.

Coulson must have heard him because he rolled out from under the car on his backboard and looked up. "You all right?" he asked.

Clint very nearly jumped at the question, covering it by pushing off of Lola and heading over to the workbench nearby, making it a point to exchange his steel brush for a rag. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Clint said, as nonchalantly as possible.

Coulson didn't buy it for a moment. He sat up on his backboard, the better to see the archer. "You know, I still think you should talk to someone," he said, earnestly, "most recruits have some preparation before-"

"Dammit, I don't need to talk to some stranger about my feelings!" Clint snapped, slamming his hands into the workbench and leaning against it. He instantly regretted it, of course. He took a long, calming breath, grateful that Coulson patiently waited in silence for him to collect himself. Finally, when he felt like he was back under control, he turned and leaned against the workbench, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Look, I'm... I'm just not there yet, all right?"

"Okay," Coulson said in understanding, giving a nod, "but you'll let me know when you are."

Sliding his eyes away, Clint rubbed a finger along the back of his ear, self-consciously, and nodded.

"Why don't we knock this off for the night," said Coulson, getting to his feet and grabbing a rag to clean his hands a little, "I'm hungry."

"Yeah, I could eat," Clint agreed.

"Then I am just in time," came Bobbi's voice from the garage entrance. She walked in, holding up three paper bags with bravado, "didn't see either of you in the mess, so I figured you were down here again, playing with your toys and forgetting to eat."

"Hey, sweet!" Clint exclaimed. "Room service!"

"Yeah, just don't get used to it, sport," Bobbi said, peeking into the tops of the bags. She handed one to Coulson and one to Clint. "Reuben and chips with chocolate milk for Coulson and pizza rolls and blue jello with a coke for bird-boy."

"Ooh! Blue jello night!" Clint said, pulling the cup of jello from the bag and immediately cracking it open.

"I think you've been spending too much time with us," Coulson said, unwrapping the reuben.

"Yeah, Blake's already said you two are a bad influence," Bobbi replied, opening up her own bag and pulling out a burrito. "So what's shakin'? You guys gonna get off your butts and come back to training any time soon or what?"

"My shoulder needs a couple more weeks," said Coulson, "doc's orders. But Clint should be about ready. What do you say?"

"Well, if Birdie needs someone to put her on the mat, again," said Clint, "I understand if you miss it, an' all."

"Oh, that's a challenge!" Bobbi replied with a laugh. She took a few steps closer to him, getting right in his face with a bit of a hip swagger. "I got news for you, Clint. While you've been cooling your heels, I've been working hard. You won't get a hand on me."

"Oh yeah?" said Clint. "Well, I think you better prove it."

"Oh I will, sport," she replied, "tonight, in the gym, after we eat." She tapped his nose with a forefinger. "Unless you can think of something better to do." She wandered away from him and leaned against Lola's door.

"Nope," Clint said. Then he downed the rest of his blue jello in a gulp, knocking it back like a shot before tearing into the pizza rolls as quickly as he could.

No, things weren't perfect, Clint decided. And they certainly weren't normal, nor would they ever be in a place like SHIELD. But at least he belonged. And for now, that was workable.


End file.
